My childhood was a time of fear and stress. But there was one place I could go, someplace magical.
The fairy wood.
I didn't call it that at the time. I didn't call it anything. We were living in Aberdeen, Washington at the time. I think we were there from about third to seventh grade, give or take.
We lived in a big house, with a big yard, with big weeds, and my parents had big dreams. Much of my time, sadly, was spent in nightmare. But isn't that often the way of childhood? So many people I meet today say the same thing, that their childhood was a time of horror rather than carefree play. Clearly we are doing something wrong.
Somewhere near our house was a little wood... a patch of trees, perhaps there was a creek there, too. I don't rememeber.
Like everything in Washington, it was soft and green.
Inside of this tree-filled space were fluid wooden shapes, stumps and limbs and benches of mossy wood, sculpted by fire and softened with time.
It was art, created by nature. It was a magic place outside of the rules of daily suffering.
I would go there and sit on one of the forms and just sit. To sit and be alone and away from everyone was the purest joy. To be just me, by myself.
It was a magic space, a capsule of beauty and peace outside of the ordinary world. I miss it.