postcards from the sky

“The Place” is what I’ve always called it. It has no other name. It’s just a patch of trees and grass. It’s actually a small forest away from everything and just five minutes from home. It has always been my hideout and my oldest personal tradition. I found The Place one spring afternoon while I was following a creek behind a friend’s house. I was ten years old and my obsession was little green tree frogs that would sometimes hide in my mailbox. I had been following one all morning, catching it and letting it go in steady intervals. I suppose I hadn’t realized how far I’d gone because I was way passed the Jerzyk home and almost behind the Clays’ back yard when I looked up. Before me stood an open field not far from the interstate. It was wide and rolling with the small creek flowing through the middle, and full of trees and large rocks. I forgot the frog and and ran up the largest of these rocks. It went straight up on one side, but on the other was a gradual slope down to several smaller rocks. I climbed up and soaked in the view. I knew I had made a momentous discovery.

Vivid greens and browns surrounded me on all sides. I was hidden from the houses just fifteen yards away. The Place was only about two acres, but to my ten-year-old eyes, it was an entire kingdom. I stood like Columbus and marveled at my New World. It was dusk before I returned home.

After that day, The Place became my passion. I moved broken branches, built forts of stones, and made the big rock my throne. From it I commanded the wind, spoke to the domesticated squirrels and occasionally invited the Jerzyks’ dog for tea. The Place was beautiful and grand. The soft sound of the creek and the faint hum of the trucks on the interstate inspired many afternoon naps. Still, in my ten-year-old mind, worry free and without real fear or doubt in my life, I had no idea what The Place would become to me. I was only to realize that years later.

I continued to go the The Place until I was almost thirteen years old. I built snowmen subjects in the winter, planted and picked wildflowers in spring, rock-hopped in the creek on hot summer mornings and slept away lazy afternoons. In the fall I fed the squirrels and raked leaves until my arms ached. The Place was beautiful and I loved it... until Junior High.

Junior High was a time of utter turmoil for me. I got my first bra, smoked my first cigarette, and had my first kiss. At first, it was easy to forget The Place. It was one of many “childish” things I shelved that September. I was older and had more important things to do with my life. “I have sock hops and football games now”, I thought. “I don’t have time for playing make-believe in the woods.” But just when I truly believed that The Place was in my past, I discovered I needed it the most.

I was fifteen and had just discovered that my latest crush was “in love” with another girl. In retrospect it was a silly thing, but at the time I was devastated. I came home in tears. Unable to withstand my mother’s tender questioning and reassurances, I went out for a walk. It was a warm April afternoon and I found the path down behind the Jerzyks’ back yard. Jill Jerzyk had been my best friend for three years and had moved to Texas a few months earlier. I wished she was still around for me to talk to and her absence made me lonelier than ever. I didn’t have time to miss her for long, though. A chipmunk caught my eye and my gaze followed him down to the path by the creek. I thought of The Place and my loneliness and curiosity drove me down the forgotten path until it opened on a world wrapped in shining springtime splendor. It’s wildness made me catch my breath. The treetops were filled with robins and swallows chirping in praise of the season. The creek was high from the March rains and mushrooms and ferns announced their return.

I was struck speechless in my awe. Here was my place. It had waited for me and I had returned. The trees blocked the back yards on one side and the hill and forest on the other hid me well, just like they always had. I ran and laughed and climbed my throne and with rediscovered ten-year-old excitement. I even found an old coloring book and crayons where I had left them hidden under a rock. They were wet, rotten and chewed since last I’d seen them, but they brought a smile to my face. I was back in my kingdom.

That day forgot all about the boy. My mother had to call me in for supper. I heard her faint cries and promised The Place I would return soon. I kept my promise. I returned the next day and the next. All that summer I visited. I was busier now with teenage things, but I managed to go often to rest and think and dream.

When high school started, I was once again faced with new challenges and emotions. This time, though, I did not forget about The Place. I went there every time someone blasted my feelings, I had a horrendous fight with my mother, or found myself devastated by an unrequited crush. The Place only grew in importance to me, and I guarded it as if it were a matter of national security. On days when I planned visits, I found myself reluctant to tell my mother when she asked where I was going. It was my sacred place, and gradually it became my own personal tradition.

Traditions, as traditions go, get better of worse as time goes by. Through the years, the tradition of The Place has proved to be a grounding factor and a Godsend. The Place has seen many different sides of me. I’ve gotten so drunk there that that I almost got lost on the short walk home. I’ve cried and thrown rocks and cussed so loud that I was sure the neighbors would hear. I’ve danced and sung and made wreaths and garlands of wildflowers. I’ve lost hours in quiet contemplation. The place has been my wonderland, my sanctuary, and has helped me survive.

When I got to college, I didn’t see much of The Place. I was busy with my new friends and my fake ID. But while I was building a growing social life, it waited for me and remained intact. After I graduated and permanently moved away from my hometown, I still tried to make time for The Place. I remember a visit after I moved to Charlotte, NC. It was a hot and sticky summer and I was cranky... so I grabbed a couple of beers and a trash bag and headed for safety. I walked past the Jerzyks’ old house and thought of Jill. As I crossed the creek and headed down the path, I felt my stress ease. I climbed my throne took a deep breath. Once again, my sanctuary didn’t let me down. I could decompress in peace.

Recently, I went back to my old neighborhood to help my mother pack and organize for her move to be close to my nephews. It was an introspective journey so I made time for my traditional trek to The Place. True to form, it had changed very little. Only the size seemed to have decreased over the years. It was still a quiet reminder that the girl in me remained. Climbing onto that big old rock, it’s significance became crystal clear. “I have watched you grow”, it seemed to say, “even when you tried to rush it.”

That little patch of wilderness will always be holy to me, my private tradition. I went there when I fell in love for the first time and when my heart was truly broken for the first time. I sat in quiet contemplation when I lost my virginity. I cried in anguish when I lost those I loved. I went there when I moved away from home and have gone there every time I have returned. It has born witness to my triumphs and defeats and I have always walked away feeling a little bit stronger than before.

And The Place survives to this day. Generations of squirrels still run from the neighborhood dogs that chase them there. Even though I live far away and my travels there become less and less frequent, knowing that it’s there gives me incredible piece of mind. It lives in my memories and carries on in my heart. I wish for such a place for anyone who searches, within or without. And when found, may it never be lost. Because someday... you just might need your own secret kingdom.

Blondes should never be seen writing in a bar. It tarnishes our image; blows the lid off the fantasy. Ah well. I never was one to follow the social expectations of this place. Eat your heart out Freud.

I find that when I try to write, it becomes almost impossible. But when I'm thinking about absolutely nothing, the pen flies across the page. I've lost pens this way... Writing and writing until they run out of ink; bled dry by the opened floodgates of my mind... my fast flying far flung thoughts. They come to me when I least expect them and I swear they force themselves onto the page.

I have to laugh. Half the time I make no sense and the other half... well, my friends would say I missed my calling. Written word and the knack for counseling have earned me the illustrious nick-names "great listener", "good friend" and even, on rare occasions, "poet". I beg to differ. I'm a bullshit artist; half in love with the sound of my own voice, half prone to vicious rambling and all in need of praise. Who knows? I've never been able to sit back and I hate standing out. The consummate behind-the-camera girl who can't stop jumping into the scene anyway.

Where does that lead me? With my foot in my mouth mostly. I know I'm smart, but my brain is always ahead or behind my mouth. They're never in sync. And if my pen stops once I put it to paper, I'm screwed.

Intellect was safety. But intellect is also dangerous. "Be smart, but not too smart." I've heard it all my life. "You don't want to intimidate, do you?"

Sometimes I do. I really do. But I buckle... because for all the brain power, I'm lost against brute force. And when I hear it in a voice, it stumps me. It's the shut-down, remnants of a darker time, when silence equalled safety.

postcards from the sky

Saturday, March 17, 2012

Cacophony (9/27/11)

Lost and Found (9/15/11)

My Emancipation Proclamation (8/30/11)

The Place (years ago)

Conversation with my Father (8/17/11)

I'm not a writer but I drink a lot about it. (6/13/11)

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