A Summer in the Woods

I can still remember how all of the pine trees seemed to be crowded in around me while I read, like people looking over my shoulder to see what had caught my attention, trying to decide whether or not it would interest them. I still remember how the topaz sunshine snaked its way through the canopy of pine needles high up in the air and fell upon me in the ephemeral glory of a ribbon. From what I could see of the azure expanse above the green foliage of the pine trees, the beauty of the sky was marred only by small wisps of water vapor, visible as feathery white clouds. But for a few mosquitos that buzzed around the air, an inevitable noise of summer, that day was almost perfect.

As I felt the razor thin pages of the book slide across my fingers, giving way to the hard edge of the back cover, I realized that I had finished it. What a bittersweet moment that was. This book, this one last book that I had brought out into the middle of the woods was the one thing I had needed to distract me from my predicament. I was a troubled kid with serious anger issues in a wilderness survival camp for juvenile delinquents, and I had just finished reading my last link to the world of pure imagination. There would be more books to read eventually, but I still had a week to wait until I could get my hands on them. What would I do for a week without access to the kingdom of the fantastical?

The answer did not seem as obvious to me as it does now. My answer to being denied books for a week was to make up stories and write them down on paper. However, this decision did not happen overnight. There were many chores that I distracted myself with, such as raking the trails, cleaning the tents, and chopping wood for the potbelly stoves in case the night grew cold.

I can still hear the dull thwack of the axe as it dug into the soft wood of the logs later that same afternoon. My chore at the time was to use the hand saw and cut the logs to the proper length so that they would fit in the undersized cast-iron furnaces. As the saw dug into the wood, making a sound like vurrr vip, vurrr vip, vurrr vip, I could feel my hand stinging from the metal grip of the handle. My muscles ached as I worked and sweat fell from my brow, burning my eyes. It became easy to think with the dull, monotonous sound of the saw. It was a mindless job, and before I knew it, I was beginning to make stories and poems in my head. When I realized what I was doing, I could hardly believe myself. English is an irrelevant subject whose only use is to be an impediment, I told myself. And at that time, I knew that this was true. Nevertheless, I continued to make up stories, writing them with my imagination, editing them with a sense of wonder I had never felt at any time besides when I buried my head in a book.

Soon, I was spouting a plethora of nonsensical stories and little snatches of improvised rhymes which quickly annoyed the other children in my group. But I did not really care that I was annoying them. I only cared that I no longer felt so angry. It was a novel experience for me.

One night as smoke rose from the fire and the savory smell of chicken permeated the air, one of the camp counselors walked over to me with a small stack of paper and a couple of pencils. Without saying a word, he laid the items at my feet.  Though he did not speak, his meaning was clear enough.  "Shut the hell up and write" is what I imagine him saying. Mindful of the dust that had settled on the stack of paper, I brushed each soft sheet off individually and began to write, ignoring the droning of the mosquitos and yellow flies as they investigated the untouched chicken in front of me.

The things that I wrote down were not very amazing by themselves, but the sheer number of these little poems and short stories I wrote was a testament to the creativity of my newly tapped imagination. There I was, thirteen years old, almost fourteen, writing tales as if I had always had them in my head. And who was there to say that they were not in my head the whole time I lashed out at those around me? Wishing gave way to reading and reading gave way to writing. I had always lived in my imagination. The more I wrote, the more absorbed I became in the work involved. After a piece was completed, I set it aside and wrote something else. My prolific mind always had something else to give and the well of my imagination was always full. However, the quality of things I wrote never mattered as much to me as the fact that I finally felt happy. The anger was gone. I doubt my past self would be able to believe how much writing changed me, but the change is still there.