In each city and every town down through to the country, there can be found spaces special and unique to us alone, our own secret places. Something lent from within elevates them, we share a portion of our time to escape there. Cautiously we may bring company. Without particular criteria save that inside which guides our selection, sometimes huge and vacant, maybe small tucked away unseen in the midst of commotion. Is the calm pull present now, or do they linger in a memory of once was? Share them with us.
in small servings I have offered a few already,
to start, here are more of my own...
An enclave of grass, tall over my young blond hair, with narrow passages worn weaving through. Winding my way sometimes left at the fork, others right while taking hold of the lush green blades to feel them break as I continue forward without releasing my grasp. Occasionaly the path will tunnel through the dark tangled heart of a bush. I will slow my progress, now on hands and knees over dirt, to negotiate stray branches. Bright sun flicker filtering through the waving blades fills the warm air with sleepiness. I pad down a small nook adjacent to the passage, curl into a light nap spun of the rustling and shifting pale shadows. After the grass was trimmed no longer tall enough to explore lost within, it came stronger and deeper to me in vivid dreams.
On bikes and walking, looking for these specific places to claim secret we spent summer afternoons. Climbing trees, sitting under railroad bridges on rotten foundation logs while the water ran by. Over and among rocks along the river, sometimes stopping to skip small flat stones across the surface, from behind blackberry vines a dark gaping hole constructed of concrete came forwards. The tunnel floor was of two channels, the left a straight passage, the right a interlocking series of short cement blocks causing the water to wind left and right back and forth slowly to the downspout for the river. Interesting only for a while, we proceeded further up the creek which flowed through. Years later under other intentions I visit it now, shared with others we enjoy the open seclusion. Sometimes sitting on dry portions of the concrete to talk and eat the dark dusty berries while taking a rest, listening to the muted passage of cars overhead. Tense, tangled, I may sit alone letting soft water sounds smooth out the complications, grateful to have salvaged a ruined day. The day will grow darker and the tunnel, end lit only, becomes dim so the entrance falls behind our backs as we wearily climb the slope away from it. The winter waters rise too high, there is no way to go in, with the spring rains dwindling I will soon return. I know already that I will see a small square of river framed at the end, first stepping in the tunnel, the feeling is blurry with a year of cold though.
There was a barn, since torn down. Dry hay, dirt, and scraps of wood spread over the floor under a roof showing small portions of sky. Aging, leaning, still strong enough to climb among some of the use forgotten structures and look around. Birds took circuits in and out of the ragged holes in the walls nearly two stories high. One door opened to a small clearing walled on each side with towering blackberry bushes, picking them for pie and other treats or sitting carefully among the rusty nails in the breeze.