In one of my earliest memories, I am in the White Mountains in New Hampshire. I have wandered away from my family’s campsite at Dolly Copp Campground. I am five or maybe seven years of age. Some of the details are fuzzy and probably lost forever. I think I am in a clearing in the woods, or it might have been near a riverbed or an overgrown pasture. What I do remember vividly is seeing a patch of moss, brilliantly green, in the way only early season moss can be. I remember standing on the glowing green moss in my bare feet. Was the sun rising or setting? Whatever the case, I can remember with clarity the quality of the light, the thick, soft moss squishing through my toes, the smell of damp earth, and the quiet of the woods. And I remember feeling content, safe, and connected. Yogis would call this a moment of ‘direct experience.’ I wasn’t thinking about taking a selfie (it was circa 1970, after all). There was no mental noise but for what my senses were taking in.
I was experiencing nature with no filter.