Once in a while it's good to go back to fishing like a kid.
Now and then, when the sun is up high and the day is moving slow, when life has a stale cardboard taste to it, I'll go dig up some worms. With luck maybe even some grub worms. Even catch a few grasshoppers.
I have a couple of old bamboo fishing poles. Not bamboo fly rods, poles. I take one of them off the shed roof and check that it still has line and hook and a red and white bobber. Then I'll mosey down to the river bank and find a nice shady spot, bait up and chunk it out into the water.
I'll sit there for hours doing nothing, but doing it extraordinarily well. The rest of the world is busy, people going important places and doing necessary things. People sitting on couches watching the unblinking eye, rooting for their team, or watching a sit-com with a laugh track so they know when to laugh.
I'll sit there in my own world, contemplatihg important things. Cloud patterns, birds, falling leaves, the cork bobbing up and down as something nibbles. I'll sit there until I have fed the fish all the bait I brought with me. And I'll sit there long after that. Memories flash by. Memories of being a kid and how the world's most important things were found in the grass moving around. Ant hills and fallen bird nests, garter snakes and giant spider webs.
These were the things that caused endless wonder and curiosity, glimpses of an intricate and fantastic world. They held endless fascination. I would lay on my belly watching a bug crawl around, occasionally stopping it's line of movement with a finger to watch him go back the other way. Those fascinations are harder to find now. Too much time has passed and too much information already packed in.
I don't lay on my belly in the dirt watching bugs anymore, but I can go back in my time machine. My time machine is made with simple parts, a fishing pole, a line, a hook, and a red and white bobber.