There is this boy I once knew, he had blond hair with slight curls at the tips, and a pair of dimples that sunk into his face. His second grade teachers used to sit with him when he was alone at recess and comment on his dimples.
The boy felt alone, moving schools often, not really making lasting friends throughout elementary school, so he made friends that would never go away, the ones in his mind. He dressed up like Zorro with a small dark blanket that his mother once gave him, using it as a cape. He cut holes into a handkerchief, which held his eyes, and tied it around his head. His mother taught him how. She would kiss him on the forehead, gently telling him, “I love you hun,” before releasing him to go and seek his adventures. The boy had a fake plastic sword that he pushed through a belt loop to hold it secure, and then he ran towards the woods where he knew another world waited for him. He fought many imaginary men in those woods. The boy, like Zorro, became a noble bandit among the trees. He made the infamous “Z” pattern in the dirt, and many times he climbed the branches of the trees and jumped from one to another, occasionally plummeting towards the ground. The boy didn’t mind when he fell because even Zorro received a few bruises and cuts along the way. Little did he know, those falls would come in handy later in life because with each fall, he had to pick himself back up.
There were times when the boy would dig a fox hole among the trees, covering it with sticks and leaves, concealing himself from the world. He would lay in the hole for what seemed like hours, protected by the sticks that camouflage his body. The smell of leaves and dirt and tree bark became his favorite smells next to his mother’s chicken and dumplings. During these moments, while in his foxhole, the boy turned his fake plastic sword into a rifle, and his cape became a blanket, and the mask around his face was moved to cover his neck, and suddenly he was Audie Murphy. He read about Audie Murphy in a book at school, and even though their last names were different, they sounded close enough that the boy imagined he was related to the war hero. During these times where he made believe that he was a decorated soldier, the boy would come out from his foxhole and take on the German Army single handedly. He took his plastic rifle and shot at the Germans as they approached his foxhole, taking them down one by one, the boy’s aim and accuracy was deadly. It was as accurate as the time he shot his father in the back with a BB gun. A deserving shot that was.
The boy grew older and approached middle school. His hair turned darker, as did his thoughts. The single digit years had been hard on him and his silence was causing his mind to become a storm. The boy played football, which helped him take out some of his aggression. He fought when he needed to, and once was arrested for trespassing and vandalizing another middle school that was in session. He thought his life might continue this way. He was trouble and was told as much. By his seventh grade year, he found out that alcohol would erase his memory for a couple of hours at least, and calm him down enough to bear the thoughts swirling in his mind. There were a couple of times that he skipped school to go down the street and drink from the small bottle that he took from his father’s personal bar. Then, the stealing started. The shoplifting at local gas stations, where the boy rode his bike, acting like he was still interested in baseball cards, but stole as much as his pockets could just because it seemed fun, reckless. However, there was still the woods. He would go there and sit among the trees, still climbing a few of them, looking down at the earth below, wondering if he climbed high enough would the jump produce his demise? He attempted it a couple of times but the boy found out his body could take a lot of punishment, so the fall never hurt him much. He should have been more aware of how much abuse his body could take because he had experience. What did hurt him was what waited inside his house, through the doors that led upstairs to a man smoking a cigarette, coffee at his side, made and poured by the boy’s mother, the man reading the newspaper front to back without ever looking up. Each time before he turned the knob to enter the home, he found himself taking a deep breath, fear and anger rushed through his skin and muscles, and his entire body would tense. There were many times that the boy simply turned around before walking in, closing the door lightly without anyone knowing, and returning to the woods that always seemed to calm him down. It was the trees that regulated his breathing. At times, the boy would look up at the trees and thank them for guarding him. For keeping him safe. He would sit with them a little while longer until he could muster up the courage, or the denial, to go back to the home where the smell of smoke and coffee lingered in the air.
The boy survived middle school, turning his play from Audie Murphy and Zorro into Rambo. In high school, the woods waited for him to sneak away or drive to when he was alone. It was something nobody ever knew. He would go there and think about never coming out. He would walk deep into the trees so he was concealed from the outside world and looked up often at the branches, wondering if they could now produce the death? Would he dare? Something inside of him was itching at his brain, whispering softly into his left ear, “Hang on. Don’t leave her.” The boy had found someone else to love. He knew it was love but was uncertain if she loved him back. The darkness in his head told him that he was not worthy of such love. It told him he was not worthy of anything in life that was good. Yet, the voice was there, whispering louder and louder until it became a scream, “Hang on!” He continued to walk in and out of the woods in secret, not telling anyone, including her, when he would go. It was something he needed for his own. He could still imagine being someone else when he was there, among his tree friends, sitting in the dirt, taking in the smells of nature.
The boy grew older. He stepped into manhood. He'd listened to the screams in his head, “Hang on!” He held onto her touch, the girl he fell in love with, the girl who made him feel worthy of love. He knew as a young man that he wanted to make his life into a story with her. Their story would turn into an epic novel, one of adventure, joy, suffering, and beauty. He would see to it that they would find life interesting together, and live it deeply, mindfully, lovingly. He would take her to the woods with him, the mountains and fjords, and walk a thousand landscapes, smelling the earth together. And his love grew for her throughout time because she would see and attempt to understand his darkness, and then tell him, “You should go to the woods.” She knew it was what he needed to feel whole, to feel safe, and to imagine. She tried to help him understand his worth.
As the man started to turn gray, a few smiling wrinkles around his eyes, slightly older than middle aged, he continued to leap into the woods with his soul and heart first, followed by still strong legs. He continues to walk, but more mindfully these days, and grateful for each moment. Grateful that he still pretends he’s Zorro or even John Muir. He never lost his curiosity and ability to imagine a thousand stories as he walked the trails. Some of those stories he has turned into novels, where he tells his story to kids that might be struggling like he once did, scared to walk into their homes to the smell of cigarettes and coffee. The man is grateful that he listened to the whispers and screams, “Hang on!” Yes, hang onto life because it is extraordinary and filled with many journeys. Many of those journeys have, and will, take him to the woods, among the trees, where he belongs. The man now knows that life, his life, is a wonderful gift.
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