A blessing to be a hobbyist

A walk through the wooden and laken path gave me another epiphany today in the same tandem as yesterday’s post. Like the way your own art accompanies you throughout various memories of your life, so do hobbies.

I have been indulging in the true beauty of what it is like to have hobbies. Something I do regularly on my own volition because I want to because I like doing it.

I enjoy a morning walk surrounded by woodland creatures. I like seeing people doing the same and say hi to them (I used to not interact with them at all but I decided to change it up a bit recently). I love hearing the bugs chatter and birds chipper and trees flutter and animals lurker.

Now that I write this, I actually realized that I don’t walk regularly. I wake up much too late to be out this long before the heat gets me. Maybe I’m writing this wishfully.

My point still stands. Doing some kind of hobby serves as another benchmark to your life. Walking, running, cooking, birdwatching, anything. They add stories to your memories. And my optimistic and post-walk happy brain thinks those hobbies will almost always, if not absolutely always, make for very happy stories.