Do you remember who you are?

Have you ever been punched in the family jewels by a toddler? It's a highly overrated experience.

And yet, this action contains the truth of the entire universe.

Yep.

And I say this without the assistance of mushrooms. Just coffee. Viva Nescafe.

Getting to hang out with my nephew last week was great. He's a big, bursting ball of energy, like most 3-year-old boys who think throwing things and crashing into walls and hitting their unsuspecting uncles in the marbles is the absolute peak of hilarity.

And you know what? He's right. It is hilarious. All of it. He gets it.

Because, unlike us, he remembers who and what we really are.

He's only three years removed from home. From the boundless consciousness of pure energy and creation. Where everything manifests the instant you think of it. Where there is no density, limitation, rules, norms or codes of conduct. Where all energy is simply play-doh, to craft and assemble and disassemble as we please.

So of course he shows up to this place and thinks those same rules apply.

Why wouldn't he? Like an American who gets off the plane in Japan and thinks it's totally cool to wolf down a Big Mac, throw the wrapper on the floor, and walk into a shrine with their muddy shoes on.

The locals are horrified. But the visitors think nothing of it.

We get so lost in this place, in this dream we call life, that we forget the one thing my nephew still remembers.

That our most natural state is freedom. Joy. Adventure. Curiosity. Wonder.

These aren't mere qualities we possess. These are the building blocks of what we are.

Now, the day will come, sadly, when he'll forget who he is too. Just like the rest of us. He'll develop an identity, stories to reinforce that identity, a set of reactions and behaviors to his experiences that will become his "personality", and he'll think that's what's real. And so will everyone around him.

I forgot. You forgot. And he will too. It's all part of the game.

And yet, for a brief moment last week, he helped me remember. He became my greatest teacher. With a lesson that needed an icepack.

This weekend, I hope you find that same lesson somewhere too. A lesson that helps you remember. If only for a brief moment. And, preferably, one that doesn't get you walking for the rest of the afternoon like you just returned from a dude ranch.

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