Hiding Place

The house where I grew up is in a very special place—an isolated, womblike enclosure of acres of forest and fields. As a kid, I played outside whenever I could, striking magical flint rocks, concocting various formulas of mud in the creek, naming and talking to the trees like they were my friends. When I transformed into a brooding, miserable teenager, the familiar woods became my escape by default; it was the only thing within walking distance on all sides.

Photo by Josh Barker

The woods (the wild) was a safe place where I could think, try out new voices and facial expressions, be angry if I wanted to be. More importantly, it was a solitary place where I could hide emotionally, and if no one could find me, no one could hurt me. When I couldn't physically escape to the woods, I retreated to my thoughts and hid there instead.

But, even in a good hiding spot, the forest does not feel safe at night, and, surrounded by the dark and dangers both real and perceived, one becomes acutely aware that she is alone.

I will find my way out.