Lost and Found in the Woods

        By Christine Morone

                Eng 101

                   1334

            March 17, 2004
 

           I grew up in Massachusetts, about twenty miles south of the New Hampshire

border.  I remember this region as a dense blanket of giant oak, sugar maple,

birch, and pine trees, intermingled with lush pillows of fern, moss, shrubs,

and bushes.   A bumpy bedrock of granite stone and hills of rich black soil were

the media into which nature planted the seeds of that great deciduous forest.

So much beauty lay there that I could not resist its call to me to come explore

its wealth.  What I found there was a sanctuary from the complete and utter <<The Author's Point

destruction of my soul. It was in the beautiful woods of New England that I

came alive and where I secretly practiced being me.

           As a little girl between the ages of six and twelve, I rarely felt loved or

valued. It seemed I couldn't do anything right.  The members of my family had

declared war on each other, and if I drew too close to any of them, they shot me

with their poisonous arrows of hostility and criticism.  I became an emotionally

stifled child, afraid to express my thoughts, feelings, or ideas.  I anticipated the

sting of rejection's venom at every turn.   I discovered that the thoughts and

dreams of a chiid are funny things, though, with a life of their own.  Therefore,

it was through the power of an undying spirit that I habitually fled to the secret

places of field and forest.

           During the spring of my kindergarten year, I was left alone with my

mother while my sister and brother were at school and while my father was

at work.  I read once that iron sharpens iron, but the dynamic between my

mother and me was more like fingernails scratching across a chalkboard.  Whenever

I would seek my mother's love or guidance, she would throw me off like an

irritating woolen garment placed up against a rash.  Branded, I would run into the

backyard woods.  There I found a home in which to play house among a wide circle

of oak trees.   My little house came complete with smooth stone seats from which I

entertained dolls and imaginary friends.   A lovely pine tree with its soft cushion

of fallen needles made a cozy bed upon the ground.   The stream that ran along my

 batter for my cakes and pies.  I loved to artfully decorate each confection

with colored pebbles and soft fine sand. The creative cook in me took shape, and

I found many tranquil hours of expressive release in baking, stirring, and sculpting.

It was while surrounded by the protective, extended arms of oaks and pines that I

first "learned how to cook."  It was in that environment of quiet safety that I also

tacked the word peace upon the doorpost of my heart.  It was when my quest for

a life of creative expression and truth began.

        It was in that same back yard that I tobogganed, built elaborate snow forts, rolled

and stacked huge balls of snow into snowmen, and flapped out snow angels in the

deep drifts of winter.  Winters were long and cold and were complicated by the fact

that my mother never learned to drive a car.  Her fear crippled her, and so it was that

she made a home of solitary confinement.  Left to my mother's lack of courage, my

exposure to adventure was limited to the kaleidoscope of the opportunity in my own

backyard.

        My favorite pastime during those long winters was tobogganing down an old

cart path in the woods behind my house.  The swift speed at which I glided stirred up

all the butterflies in my stomach.  Addicted to the adrenalin, I spent hours soaring down

that winding path. With challenged concentration, I leaned my body to the left and right

to avoid hitting the trees.  I became a skilled navigator of my wooden sled.  Climbing back

up the hill after each run left me tired.  There was always a sense of completion as I

expended all my energy during the long hours of play.  Satisfied and full, I retreated

back to my house where its solitude provided rest for my weary body.  I was not easily

tamed after that.  The taste of adventure and flight seeped into my consciousness.

Adventure sparked an affinity toward discovery, and I began to question my mother's

control over me.  As that path took me to the bottom of the hill, a little further from my

mother's scrutinizing eye, I began to see beyond the horizon of my own

backyard.

        By the time I was in the 4th grade, I needed to identify with something other than

my mother's loneliness. I decided I wanted to play classical guitar and take ballet

lessons. These were more than fleeting desires. Guitar and ballet represented my

destiny. They were the dreams inside me that waited to spring into life. Of course,

I was crushed when my mother and father refused to indulge me in my pursuit of

"The Fine Arts." I ached inside as I grieved over the loss of my dream, and that grief

pushed me further away from the nucleus of my family. It was during one of my walks

of escape that I found a great refuge. The street sign read LEGATE HILL.  As I looked

ahead, I saw an incredibly steep hill that resembled a great, massive wall.  Always

the one who enjoyed a challenge, I began the climb. The incline of the hill seemed

to steer me straight up toward the sky. There were beautiful green meadows lined on

either side of me. They seemed to be stacked one on top of the other like rolled mounds

of carpet that led me toward heaven. The climb was made strenuous by the steep grade

of the hill. When I reached the top, I gasped for breath, not only to gain oxygen but

also because of what I saw. The hand of God painted a landscape that set my soul

free.  Like a lover caught up in a heady romance, I was breathless.  I felt inebriated as I

looked out over a sweeping panoramic view of pristine fields, forest, and wildflowers.

Then the dance began. The meadows became cascading dance floors on which I loosed

all the fury and passion of a great toe dancer. I leaped and twirled across the fields.

I felt free, and I felt alive. That beautiful hillside became my stage, and its wide-open

airiness was my only audience.

        On Legate Hill, I also pretended I was Julie Andrews, starring in The Sound of Music.

I laughed and skipped down the hills and they became The Alps of my imagination.

Other times I hiked in the woods amidst old water wells and wagon wheels that were left

behind like monuments from an extinct civilization. I dreamed I was an Indian maiden

as I sat and soaked in the pristine beauty of the land.  Deep within me a flame of passion

ignited.  Author, poet, dancer, and actress were all born on that hill, and each staked a

claim in my memory.

        When I turned twelve years old I wasn't content with walking anymore, so I asked

for a ten-speed bicycle. Like a new pair of wings, the pedals on my bike took me to

far-off places. Independence took root, and I knew, from then on, I would never be

the same. I embraced the joy of freedom as I pedaled down the back roads of

Massachusetts. I developed perseverance and endurance as I pumped up the steep

hills. I repeated to myself, "You can do it. Don't give up." I became feisty in the process.

I began to believe I could do anything. I established rest stops on old stone walls that

lined old pot-holed roads. Poetry was formed in my heart as I watched the colors change

with the four seasons. It was a pensive time. I knew I was changing like the seasons

around me. I stayed a little longer each time as if to steep myself in the fragrant beauty

of the forest. I didn't want to forget; its splendor was my comfort for so long. I knew it

was a gift to grow up in this Eden. It trained my eye to look for the shelters during life's

storms.

        To this day, I cannot shake off the habit of pressing deeper into my surroundings to

find the hidden joys in the ruts of life.  Just like when I was a little girl, I found that I had

dreams and the ability to express them in many ways. I found that the dreams of author,

poet, dancer, and actress could come out of hiding.  Little did I know way back then that

my true self was watched over and protected in the womb of the New England woods.

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