the greatest adventure is what lies ahead
I am aching for a long walk in the woods at goucher. no particular reason, no particular sadness is driving me there, but still...I miss those woods. home is fine, even good for me, but I miss those woods.
not that this isn't a fairly rural place. I've got wetlands behind my house, even, in which I've frequently spent many an hour, overturning rocks and catching tadpoles and blazing trails. but somehow, the wetlands are a different presence to me since I've come home. it's not that I can't go back there...just that I can no longer exist in them the way I once existed in them, nor can I exist in them the way I exist in the woods at goucher.
the wetlands, now, are a sort of link to a little girl with brambles in her hair and mud on her knees, dancing in the sun peeking through the trees in spots and circles. I see her as if through a camera's lense. she's a big part of me, but she is not me, and because of that I can't be in those woods what I used to be in them. they are a reminder of that time, and of all I believed then. they are sunspots in my past that have been put happily to rest. they are not a new exploration in magic and spirituality. I have no such woods at home.
my woods are something else.
It was I, flushed and snow-bitten, who first tumbled off her sled and pushed aside the threshold of cattails. My brother, Mike, and our neighbor, Nate, toppled down the icy slope and trudged after me. The wind was snapping at my cheeks and the snowdrifts groaned under my too-large boots, but slender frost sheaths broke with a tinkle as I parted the tall brown stems. Behind me, shivers rose in swirls from my brother’s lungs and stilled on the back of my neck; behind him, Nate’s breath swirled alike. I tasted steel on the wind and in my mouth. The sky, reflected in the ice, was the blue of adventure. In the months following, we would wander countless times under that same azure sky. This day and every day after, the air was light on our shoulders and ceaseless springtime was in our eyes. I was enchanted. In the mud-soaked years of my childhood, the wetlands became the heart of my imagination.
Our new world was endless. Bound in our collective imaginations, we rustled through the tall grass, winding with the stream’s chortling current. We were fearless adventurers, mythical nomads. Determined to follow the stream to its end, we scrambled through the thick clots of thorns, shrugging away from the thick stings and rasping sound of fabric tearing as we caught ourselves on stray barbs. Together we floated amber leaf-rafts in the swirling little eddies that gathered between rocks. Wrapping our grimy hands around the bare, ivory colored roots, we clambered up our imagined Cliffs of Dracone seeking caves and dragon’s blood to swell in our minds. The forest drew us in more deeply and we slid down a ledge from the tumbling paths of the woods to the flat semi-circle of moss and sod, perpetually green and lush. The river skipped past, sloshing across the soft silt of its banks and bejeweling the seams of the moss-carpet with spray.
Here, I felt, auburn-haired maidens had lain draped in white, trailing their fingers in the water. Here, unicorns had stood. When I looked at Unicorn Ledge, I could see them - the regal curve of their necks; the austere, benevolent eyes. I often lingered on Unicorn Ledge with my fancies.
The end of my carelessness and caprice fell on me with dusk. The air became heavy, the moon, slowly emerging, weighed on my shoulders. The path yanked away my daydreams with each homeward step. Reality engulfed me like a slip in the stream, or the rush of cold in winter when our boots broke through the ice. As curfews and rules forced their dictatorship into the footholds of my mind, the life began to seep from my reveries. Our haunts could not satisfy; we spent hours seeking new realms. With more vigor than ever, we struck out for the very end of the river. We resolved to conquer our wild world of dreaming.
I was condemned to be sliced away from my idyllic sphere. If ever my brother and I crawled, soaked up to our knees, up the slope to the quiet streets of our neighborhood long past the call of dinner, I was to blame for the transgression. The return to a house ripe with the scent of garlic and chicken, cooling for an hour, came to foreshadow the disappointment in the voices of the adults and the condescension in their eyes. If my world of imagination clung to me, even for a moment, the look was there. It left a bitter taste in my mouth. Reality came now more often than just at night.
I was growing, also. The two year age gap between my co-pioneers and I was gaping open into a great chasm, a space between two worlds. In the winters to come, I discovered points of the river at which I could stand with one foot on either side. I was straddling two worlds. I knew that the Cliffs of Dracone were not cliffs, but sharp banks where the mud had shifted. My visits became less frequent; the time between them lengthened with each passing day. My brother and Nate began to travel there alone, and though I still longed for adventure, I was no longer part of the wetlands as they were. With each expedition I wandered across veritable fortresses of thorn and thicket. Where once I had slithered through the gaps as easily as my brother and Nate, I now found worlds closed off to me. I lingered on the edge of romanticism, but the taste of dull air and the smell of spices kept me out. Eventually, all of the wetlands’ magic was stored away from me, behind cattails and thickets.
My last visit came years later. The air was cold and metallic in my mouth as I crunched through the iced marshes. I squeezed through the thickets, snared my jacket on thorns and snags. Where no path opened to allow my passage, I pushed through. I winced as branches bit into my skin. Finally, with raw, criss-crossing welts rising on my hands, I pulled back a branch and revealed the eternally green Unicorn Ledge, untouched by the snow. I settled down at the tip of the ledge, savoring the thick cushion of moss. I lifted one hand and trailed my fingers in the water, letting them numb as the stream swirled and rippled around them. My hair fell across my face as I leaned over and peered into the water. I gazed at my reflection, marveling at how little had actually changed since my first escapade here. The water distorted the changes in my face, the maturity in my eyes, the length of my hair. The sound of the water’s rush tickled my ears. Reflected behind me in the water, I could once more see unicorns.
not that this isn't a fairly rural place. I've got wetlands behind my house, even, in which I've frequently spent many an hour, overturning rocks and catching tadpoles and blazing trails. but somehow, the wetlands are a different presence to me since I've come home. it's not that I can't go back there...just that I can no longer exist in them the way I once existed in them, nor can I exist in them the way I exist in the woods at goucher.
the wetlands, now, are a sort of link to a little girl with brambles in her hair and mud on her knees, dancing in the sun peeking through the trees in spots and circles. I see her as if through a camera's lense. she's a big part of me, but she is not me, and because of that I can't be in those woods what I used to be in them. they are a reminder of that time, and of all I believed then. they are sunspots in my past that have been put happily to rest. they are not a new exploration in magic and spirituality. I have no such woods at home.
my woods are something else.
It was I, flushed and snow-bitten, who first tumbled off her sled and pushed aside the threshold of cattails. My brother, Mike, and our neighbor, Nate, toppled down the icy slope and trudged after me. The wind was snapping at my cheeks and the snowdrifts groaned under my too-large boots, but slender frost sheaths broke with a tinkle as I parted the tall brown stems. Behind me, shivers rose in swirls from my brother’s lungs and stilled on the back of my neck; behind him, Nate’s breath swirled alike. I tasted steel on the wind and in my mouth. The sky, reflected in the ice, was the blue of adventure. In the months following, we would wander countless times under that same azure sky. This day and every day after, the air was light on our shoulders and ceaseless springtime was in our eyes. I was enchanted. In the mud-soaked years of my childhood, the wetlands became the heart of my imagination.
Our new world was endless. Bound in our collective imaginations, we rustled through the tall grass, winding with the stream’s chortling current. We were fearless adventurers, mythical nomads. Determined to follow the stream to its end, we scrambled through the thick clots of thorns, shrugging away from the thick stings and rasping sound of fabric tearing as we caught ourselves on stray barbs. Together we floated amber leaf-rafts in the swirling little eddies that gathered between rocks. Wrapping our grimy hands around the bare, ivory colored roots, we clambered up our imagined Cliffs of Dracone seeking caves and dragon’s blood to swell in our minds. The forest drew us in more deeply and we slid down a ledge from the tumbling paths of the woods to the flat semi-circle of moss and sod, perpetually green and lush. The river skipped past, sloshing across the soft silt of its banks and bejeweling the seams of the moss-carpet with spray.
Here, I felt, auburn-haired maidens had lain draped in white, trailing their fingers in the water. Here, unicorns had stood. When I looked at Unicorn Ledge, I could see them - the regal curve of their necks; the austere, benevolent eyes. I often lingered on Unicorn Ledge with my fancies.
The end of my carelessness and caprice fell on me with dusk. The air became heavy, the moon, slowly emerging, weighed on my shoulders. The path yanked away my daydreams with each homeward step. Reality engulfed me like a slip in the stream, or the rush of cold in winter when our boots broke through the ice. As curfews and rules forced their dictatorship into the footholds of my mind, the life began to seep from my reveries. Our haunts could not satisfy; we spent hours seeking new realms. With more vigor than ever, we struck out for the very end of the river. We resolved to conquer our wild world of dreaming.
I was condemned to be sliced away from my idyllic sphere. If ever my brother and I crawled, soaked up to our knees, up the slope to the quiet streets of our neighborhood long past the call of dinner, I was to blame for the transgression. The return to a house ripe with the scent of garlic and chicken, cooling for an hour, came to foreshadow the disappointment in the voices of the adults and the condescension in their eyes. If my world of imagination clung to me, even for a moment, the look was there. It left a bitter taste in my mouth. Reality came now more often than just at night.
I was growing, also. The two year age gap between my co-pioneers and I was gaping open into a great chasm, a space between two worlds. In the winters to come, I discovered points of the river at which I could stand with one foot on either side. I was straddling two worlds. I knew that the Cliffs of Dracone were not cliffs, but sharp banks where the mud had shifted. My visits became less frequent; the time between them lengthened with each passing day. My brother and Nate began to travel there alone, and though I still longed for adventure, I was no longer part of the wetlands as they were. With each expedition I wandered across veritable fortresses of thorn and thicket. Where once I had slithered through the gaps as easily as my brother and Nate, I now found worlds closed off to me. I lingered on the edge of romanticism, but the taste of dull air and the smell of spices kept me out. Eventually, all of the wetlands’ magic was stored away from me, behind cattails and thickets.
My last visit came years later. The air was cold and metallic in my mouth as I crunched through the iced marshes. I squeezed through the thickets, snared my jacket on thorns and snags. Where no path opened to allow my passage, I pushed through. I winced as branches bit into my skin. Finally, with raw, criss-crossing welts rising on my hands, I pulled back a branch and revealed the eternally green Unicorn Ledge, untouched by the snow. I settled down at the tip of the ledge, savoring the thick cushion of moss. I lifted one hand and trailed my fingers in the water, letting them numb as the stream swirled and rippled around them. My hair fell across my face as I leaned over and peered into the water. I gazed at my reflection, marveling at how little had actually changed since my first escapade here. The water distorted the changes in my face, the maturity in my eyes, the length of my hair. The sound of the water’s rush tickled my ears. Reflected behind me in the water, I could once more see unicorns.