A magical weekend for curious families.

Once upon a Labor Day weekend in the Berkshires, twelve families wandered into the woods carrying costumes, flashlights, curious children and perhaps a few former versions of themselves.

They gathered at The Thyme, a place where the Temple never burns and the water never runs dry. Tiny camps emerged beneath the trees. Lanterns flickered overhead. A handmade sign read: “In Fairy Dust We Trust.” Costumes were adorned before breakfast. Marshmallows were roasted with unusual seriousness.

Some parents traded the playa for la montaña, while others answered the call to go West, sending grandparents and children as their proxies to the forest instead. Somehow, everyone got the burn they needed.

The children built worlds quickly. A cardboard kingdom here. A fairy trading post there. The pool party was not a mirage, and somehow the best DJ set of the weekend happened poolside.

A red Radio Flyer wagon became an art car, requiring absolutely no license to operate. It would occasionally yield to oncoming traffic in the form of a child riding a unicorn pony cycle with reckless conviction. The art installations were pint-sized, yet somehow still larger than life, rivaling the towering sculptures of another burn in another wilderness entirely.

The children were introduced to the concept of picking up MOOP, though many quickly changed the first letter, which, unsurprisingly, nobody volunteered to clean up.

A small child helped himself to the desserts of his peers and claimed radical self reliance. Everyone arrived bearing gifts, only to realize the greatest gift would be the presence they gave to one another.

Days unfolded in a world that felt part family summer camp, part dreamscape. Forest adventures. Ridiculous costumes. Music drifting through the trees. Pillow fights of surprising emotional significance. Tiny humans barefoot in the grass reminding adults that joy is actually quite simple once you stop scheduling it.

At night, the forest glowed.

Stories stretched longer around the firepit. New friendships formed over shared snacks, shared children and shared stories of parenthood. When the children grew weary and dozed off to sleep, the parents danced beneath the trees with the kind of sincerity usually reserved for places much farther from home.

There were the serendipitous moments. The strange coincidences between activities. The conversations that somehow arrived exactly when they were meant to. Everyone had their mountain moment.

And somewhere between the campfire smoke, the fireflies and the sound of children laughing in the dark, parents remembered what the children had known all along:

Magic was right here at home.