If you've read my blog lately, then you know that I recently attended a writing conference and had the wonderful experience of bringing my memories, imagination, and skills to life in my very own writer's notebook. I've tossed the idea back and forth of whether or not to post a piece of the writing. It's a little bit like ripping a piece out of a journal and sharing it with everyone. Nonetheless, I've decided that I'll post a snippet because, after all, you don't have to like it and you don't have to see value in it if you choose. Truly, the act of writing this piece brought me such joy and that in itself is enough.
Without further ado, I give you a short (and title-less) work that is dedicated to my brother, my co-explorer of our childhood outdoors.
want to tell you a secret. Thanks, I knew I could trust it with you. Maybe I should whisper though so
it doesn't know I'm betraying it's confidence.
The woods are full of magic. No, I'm not talking whimsical fairies and conversational sycamore trees. A forest possesses power and magic in its ability to transform a little boy and girl into travelers of space and time, siblings whose imaginations have been given free range to soar.
Across the backyard of my childhood home laid the beginning of my father's flower fields. There was no need to crawl through a wardrobe and enter Narnia. My brother and I reached the borders of our own wonderland on the banks of the gurgling creek just beyond.
I recall sitting in the chilly shade of one portion of the bank with my brother, Clay, carefully examining the color and quality of each rock and stone. Only certain ones would do for making Indian paint.
Or the occasions when he and I collected sticks, limbs, and rocks to build a fort, wooden bridge, and dam. The result was a primitive lean-to that only I, the younger and smaller of the pair, could shimmy my upper body into. The wooden bridge, as strong in our minds as any steel structure, turned out slick from water and likely to sink under our childhood weight. Yes, even the rock dam was not able to affect the strength of the rippling current that traveled by. It didn't matter. We were architects, contractors, builders. A triumph in our minds.
The woods were a place for attempting to catch crawdads in the murky creek water stirred up by our algae clad sticks that were makeshift fishing nets. It was the keeper of a cut down pine tree whose thick pine needles were an entry way to a rudimentary playhouse. The woods contained both a giant hill to stand upon as ruler and an unmarked area of ordinary trees and undergrowth that was especially meaningful to the imaginations of my young brother and me.
But you see, I can't tell you more, for a good part of this childhood magic remained in those woods and along with it many of the beautiful details that elude my memory. The rest, well that belongs to that little girl and boy, fearless explorers of the outdoors.
