When I was seven, my great-grandmother died. Actually, she wasn’t really the kind of woman who just died. Most likely, she transcended this earth and is still kicking around somewhere, canning homegrown vegetables and baking pies in one of her worn dresses. I don’t remember attending a funeral or a memorial for her, but I do remember when my parents told me they had bought her house and property. We were moving. The actual process of moving is a blur in my mind, but most likely that’s because I was seven and trying not to think about it too much. I do remember that she had an old organ in her living room, and seven-year-old me was sure it would work again someday. I was completely distraught when my mom decided to sell it. It’s strange what our young minds fix on when we undergo distressing times, isn’t it?
There was a tiny little two-room schoolhouse just a few minutes from my new home. I found myself a stranger in a small school of perhaps thirty-five students, and I was the subject of much scrutiny. It was hard to make friends within the small group of closely-bonded students, and I found myself suddenly feeling the sadness that usually comes with the changing of residencies. Life at home wasn’t a lot better than my life at school, and so I began exploring around my great-grandmother’s old property. The house itself was placed just off of the road, but was surrounded on all other sides by acres of forest. All of it belonged to an assortment of family members at the time.
This was the beginning. I don’t ever remember feeling really alive before the moment I stepped foot into the woods.
I found all the animal trails and man-made paths in the woods. I discovered little hideaways formed by trees and cascading branches. I sloshed around in my rain boots through the little creek and the lake that formed during the torrential downpours we have so often here in Western Washington. I found my soul’s home, its resting place. When my mom started watching some of the boys from school while their mom was still at work, I found out that little girls and boys could be friends, just not where our other friends could see. We would all go out into the woods together and pretend we were warriors or wizards or shapeshifters. We made ourselves into villains and heroes and mystical creatures like dragons. We used fallen branches to fashion our own swords, bows, and magic wands. We declared different little nature-made hideaways our forts. We formed alliances and waged war on each other. And when one of us was upset, they would run out into the woods to their fort and hide until the others found them, and then we would talk and listen and support the one who was crashing to the ground. Those boys were my first real friends, and the forest was my first real safe place.
As I grew up, I found that the games of make-believe weren’t so fun anymore, and for a brief while I didn’t spend any time beneath my beloved trees. The woods was still my safe haven though, and when my mom was diagnosed with multiple sclerosis, I found myself under the canopies, dodging old fallen branches and curtains of moss to find my way to my old favorite haunts again. I recall spending so much time in a little meadow towards the back of the property that my parents became worried and started looking for me. The meadow was my secret though, so when I heard them calling my name I worked my way back to the house.
There came a time in high school when I had my first boyfriend. We were fairly serious at one point, and my naïve mind thought we would last forever. So, I took him out to the woods, my safe haven. That was when I discovered that being kissed in the green-filtered light of the forest was a totally different experience from sneaking kisses in the hallways at school. But he and I weren’t going to last, and he was never allowed to be a part of my safe haven again.
During high school, there was a huge wind storm. It knocked over a lot of trees near the house, and my parents decided that if they were to be prudent homeowners, they would need to take down any trees near the house that would endanger our home. I was appalled. To me, the house was just another house and was easily replaceable. The forest was something else. It was magic, and to chop it down into cheap firewood was something akin to treason. That Christmas though, I unwrapped a gift from my dad and tears streamed down my face like they were in race to see which droplet could reach the wood of the lightbox in my hands first. My dad had taken some of the wood from the logging of my beloved forest and made me a lightbox so I could always have a piece of it.
As high school continued, I found I had less and less time to venture out into the wilderness in my own backyard. I reasoned that it would always be there when the torture of high school was done. I was wrong. Some of the family members found that parts of their land had sick trees. With my relatives’ ages and the sickness of the trees, they decided the best option was to log their properties. The woods directly surrounding my house was safe, but most of the rest of the trees were gone in a matter of months. When the logging was finished, it was weeks before I had the courage to go see what was left of the magic. It wasn’t much. The trails and paths were cut short or ruined. Dead branches hung down from all the remaining trees, speaking of the trauma inflicted on the evergreens that had been right next to them. My meadow, a place of peace and happiness and safety, was completely gone. I was heartbroken.
That was just last year. Now, I live in the city and attend classes at a great university. I have wonderful friends and I am happy, but a part of me will always ache for the forest. It will always be my safe place, a place to become whole again. I miss the days of wizards and knights and fiery dragons. I miss the thrill of adventuring through the trails with my first set of best friends as we fought evil with swords and wands made of sticks we found on the ground. I would do anything to go back to the simple times when the woods housed my love, joy, and imagination. As it turns out, you can take the girl out of the forest, but she’ll never really feel alive unless she’s illuminated by the hazy green light of the sun filtering through the branches of outrageously tall trees.
