I just watched that Bryan Adams video. It has this ’80s way of telling a remember-when story, from innocent times through not-so-innocent times to now, when he’s wishing he could go back to ‘the best days of my life.’
This summer held the best days of my life. I had a birthday and people I’m close to made the trek up from California to Idaho, where we all played music on the front porch looking out over our valley. I was introduced to the Hay House family and started taking FOR THE SENDER a little further out into the world. I asked supermodel Gisele how to spell her name when signing books for her, because I didn’t know who she was, but now I wish I’d known and asked for Patriots tickets since her husband is the quarterback. I wrote, sat, thought, then wrote some more.
But most of those days I spent on my horse and with my dog, riding out from my house into some of the most beautiful country on earth. There is no Facebook in that country. No Twitter. There are only trees turning green to yellow to orange to red and the echoes of coyote howls, only herds of elk moving across the valley and red-tail hawks above. There are only cold fingers fumbling with reins on early mornings and the smell of an ancient earth, only a wild sky under which the rattle and hum of small devices goes unnoticed, unheeded, as it has for ages and will long after we’re gone.
These were the best days of my life.