The Summer Treasure Hunt: Enjoying the Good Old Days While You’re Still Living Them

One day, these might be the good old days. The funny thing about the good old days is that we rarely recognize them when we’re inside them.

Time goofing off in the water gets remembered. The time spent packing the car does not.

The trip stays. The “Are we there yet?" complaints during travel fade.

The cookout lingers. The effort of sweating over the grill is forgotten.

The long summer afternoons of carefree exploration or rest survives. The moments of boredom do not.

Memory has a way of editing.

It keeps the fireflies and softens the mosquito bites.

It remembers the smell of sunscreen, but forgets the struggle of getting everyone out the door.

It holds onto the laughter around the campfire and lets the smoke in our eyes become a smaller part of the story.

But perhaps we don’t need to wait for memory to turn ordinary moments into something precious. Perhaps we can practice noticing while the moments are still happening.

Not because every moment is perfect. Not because the mosquitoes aren’t biting, the kids aren’t fighting, the traffic isn’t frustrating, or the ice cream isn’t melting faster than it can be eaten.

But because this is life. The whole, messy, beautiful thing.

So consider this your summer treasure hunt. Our invitation is to allow the summer months to be full of meaningful presence now, not just when you look back on them.

There is nothing you need to buy. Nothing you need to plan. Nothing you need to complete. Simply ask yourself, from time to time: What is here that I might someday miss?

Then see what you find.

Don’t wait for nostalgia to tell you that these were the good old days. Look around. You are already in them.

The treasure isn’t always where you’d expect to find it

Sometimes it's the obvious things, like the smell, the sound, or the taste of the season. But just as often it's quieter than that: the dog who's decided your feet are the safest place in the house. The friend who calls instead of texting, for no real reason. The particular way someone says your name. The five minutes alone in the car before you go inside and are needed by everyone. The things we rarely think to appreciate until something shifts and they're gone.

What we tend to miss most, looking back, was never really the moment itself. It was who we were with, what we had without noticing we had it, and who we were before quietly becoming who we are now.

So as you notice the treasures this summer, you might consider reflecting on the following questions:

Who do I assume will be at this table next summer?

People get older, get sick. They move. They drift. Sometimes the distance is geography, sometimes it's something harder to name. The assumption that everyone will simply be there again is one of the quietest ways we take the people we love for granted.

What version of this person am I with right now that won't exist next year? In 10 years?

The child who still wants to hold your hand in the parking lot. The friend who is happy right now, in this particular way. The parent who still remembers everything. People are always in the middle of becoming someone slightly different. The version you are with this summer is its own thing.

And then, quietly: What version of yourself?

The one who is still figuring something out. The one who is carrying something heavy, or finally putting something down. The one who is younger than you'll be next summer, even if only by a year. The one who doesn't yet know how this particular chapter ends.

We tend to reserve this kind of tenderness for the people we're watching — children growing up, parents growing older. We forget to turn it on ourselves. But you are also in the middle of something. You are also changing in ways you won't fully understand until later. This summer, this version of you — the one reading this, the one a little tired, a little hopeful, a little unsure — is also worth noticing.

What about this place am I treating as permanent?

The house. The neighborhood. The lake you've been going to for twenty years. The backyard that has held a hundred ordinary evenings. Places change. They get sold, developed, left behind. Very few of them are as permanent as we act like they are.

What have I stopped noticing because it's always been there?

Familiarity is one of the strangest forces in human life. It makes the extraordinary invisible. The view from your porch. The way the light comes through the kitchen window in the morning. The person sitting across from you at dinner.

What would I tell myself last summer to pay more attention to?

You likely already know the answer.

Important note: As you sit with these questions, you may notice feelings of sadness, guilt, or fear rise up alongside the noticing. That's a normal part of paying closer attention. Inviting you to meet these moments kindly. These questions aren't meant to cast a shadow over what's left of the summer, worry about the future, or grieve what hasn't happened yet. They're an invitation to look more carefully at what's already here.

Impermanence isn't the bad news. It's the thing that makes the good news matter. When we remember that nothing stays exactly as it is, we open the opportunity to stop sleepwalking through life. We can look up. We can lean in. We can say the thing we meant to say. We can stay a little longer. That's all this reflection is — not a reminder of what you might lose, but a reason to love what you have while you have it.

Savoring the treasures of summer

Everyone's summer has its own texture: the specific sounds of your neighborhood, the particular smell of a loved-one’s kitchen, the walk you take without even thinking about it. 

One of the curious things about being human is that we often don't realize what was precious until it has become a memory. At the end of the summer, we may find ourselves asking, Where did the time go? 

Savoring is the practice of gently turning toward pleasant moments while they are happening. Research suggests that savoring can deepen positive emotions, strengthen our memories, and increase our sense of connection and meaning. It allows us to shift from simply passing through our days to truly being alive and knowing it.

This doesn't mean every summer day needs to be grand; the invitation is to find the magic within the mundane. Some days are hot, chaotic, boring, expensive, stressful, or filled with mosquito bites and melted ice cream. But even within the ordinary, there are small treasures waiting to be noticed.

Below is a collection of summer treasures. Some may belong to your childhood. Some may be part of your life right now. Some may be experiences you've never had. Let this list be an invitation—not a checklist—to pause and ask:

What is here that I might someday miss?

The Smell of Sunscreen: Before the lake. Before the beach. Before the pool. Before the zoo, the walk, the picnic, or the long day outside. A smell that says something is about to happen.

Freshly Cut Grass: A scent that drifts through an open window or meets you when you step outside. A small announcement that summer is here.

Cicadas: The soundtrack of a hot afternoon. So constant you might stop hearing them. Until one day, you realize you haven’t heard them in months.

Water: A drink from the garden hose. A cold glass with ice clinking inside. A jump into a lake. A splash from a sprinkler. The relief of cold against summer heat. And yes, adults are allowed to run through sprinklers too.

Watermelon: The slice that's too big to eat neatly. The juice running down your arm and face. Seeing how far the seeds can be spit.

Popsicles: The ones that melt faster than you can keep up.

Swimming: Hair that smells like chlorine long after the pool. Wrinkled fingers. A towel that is somehow never completely dry.

Making a Splash: The rope swing over the water. The diving board at the end of the pool. The rock ledge everyone dares each other to climb.

Food Outside: The grill heating up; smoke drifting through the neighborhood. Or a picnic blanket that's never quite flat. Food that tastes better outside for no logical reason.

Sweet Tea and Lemonade: Sweet tea made in the sun, slow and unhurried. A cold glass of lemonade squeezed fresh. 

The Farmers Market: Tables of handmade things next to tables of grown things. Flowers bunched loosely in buckets. Honey in jars catching the light.

Homegrown Things: A tomato warm from the vine that actually smells like a tomato. Herbs that release fragrance when you brush past them. Small reminders that food has a smell before it has a taste.

Swallowtail Caterpillars: The striped ones eating the garden herbs. The chrysalis that appears one day on a stem or a fence post. The butterfly that follows. A whole quiet transformation happening in the garden, on its own schedule, whether you're paying attention or not.

Fireflies: The first flicker in the yard when the sky begins to darken. Then another. And another. Tiny lights that never stay long enough to be taken for granted.

Summer Evenings: Staying outside longer than you meant to. Conversations that stretch. A porch light turning on. The feeling that there is nowhere else you need to be.

The Sound of a Screen Door: The slap and spring of it closing behind someone. A sound that means summer, and a house full of people moving in and out all day long.

Campfires / Fire Pits: The crackle of wood. The warmth on your face. The smell of smoke that follows you home and stays in your clothes until they’re washed.

Kids Running Through Sprinklers: The shrieking. The circling back for another pass.

Thunderstorms: Dark clouds gathering. The smell of rain — petrichor — before it arrives. The sudden rush to close windows, bring things inside, or simply stand on the porch and watch.

Fireworks: A sky that suddenly demands your attention. A moment of looking up together. Then darkness again.

The Ice Cream Truck: The classic jingle many people seem to know, whether or not they ever chased one down the street. 

Songs and Playlists: The songs that seem to define a particular period of time. The songs that come on and you can’t help but sing along. In the car, windows down, too loud. In the kitchen while something is on the stove. 

Dance Parties: The spontaneous ones in the kitchen, the living room, the backyard at the end of a cookout when someone puts on the right song and suddenly no one is standing still.

Living Room Forts: Blankets over chairs. Pillows on the floor. A flashlight that's running low on batteries. The complete seriousness with which a child will furnish and defend a structure made entirely of couch cushions.

Road Trips: Snacks passed between seats. Music playing a little too loudly. The familiar question: “Are we there yet?” The feeling of being somewhere between where you started and where you’re going.

Amusement Parks: The heat of standing in line. The excitement before the ride begins. The screams from roller coasters. The rush of a water slide.

Falling Asleep Easy: The particular exhaustion of a day spent entirely outside. The kind where sleep finds you quickly, and you don't fight it, and you wake up not quite sure where the evening went.

The Hum of a Box Fan: The white noise of summer sleep. A sound so associated with warm nights that hearing it in any other season feels like a small surprise.

Frogs at Night: The chorus that starts up after dark near some bodies of water. Loud enough to be its own weather. Easy to tune out — until you actually listen, and then it's all you can hear.

Summer Books: Books left open on a beach towel. A chapter read in a hammock. Pages turned between swims, storms, and conversations.

What treasurers would you add to this list?

Leave yours in the comments. You might remind someone else of something they'd forgotten to notice.

And if this list made you think of someone — a friend, a parent, a partner, someone you want to slow down with this summer — please send it to them. Sometimes the act of saying I want to remember this to another person, or even just to yourself, is enough to make you actually stop and mean it.

If you'd like more simple practices to stay present, notice more, and move through your life with a little more intention, please subscribe to our newsletter.