It’s why the nine-year-old me coaxed my buddy Jon to follow the train tracks south of Canyon—for 10 miles. Lucky for us, when they appeared at her farmhouse, Aunt Renna Beth took pity on two, tired, thirsty, little boys.

And it’s why the 12-year-old me organized an overnight trail ride with junior high friends to Buffalo Lake (a 24-mile round-trip).

And it’s why the 18-year-old me took his 4th grade cousins (also on horseback) for an Easter excursion to Col. Goodnight’s cabin in the Palo Duro (remembering those steep, treacherous trails, I can’t believe their moms let them go).

Yes, the boy who was I was an adventurer.

Still is.

And I can’t wait to see what he has planned for the years ahead.

I know one thing—he won’t have to ask permission. One never does when he plans his own party.

Which provides a partial answer to yesterday’s dilemma. If no one is asking you to their party (to exercise your lost identity), create your own.

And then invite anyone you want to join you.