Secluded Sanctuary

There was a symphony of sounds, in my little nook of trees. The wind whispered as it weaved its way through the leaves. Cicadas buzzed and moaned from their hideaways of dirt and grass. Behind my back, the sound of cars speeding down the street cut off the welcoming jingle of the ice cream truck as it made its daily rounds. Up above, dark clouds swirled. They taunted me with the promise of rain, so I sat silently, willing it not to come. I didn’t want to be forced from my place of refuge. It was in that spot, sitting on the platform to the slide, that I was able to think, relax, and enjoy time alone. It was my safe place, untouched by my siblings and their clamor.

I found my sanctuary the summer before eighth grade. We had just recently moved, this time to a large county near the city of Fredericksburg. The new house was bigger than the last, but not nearly large enough for my siblings and I. In a house where the walls were thin and the vents carried the tiniest sound, every second of every day was filled with obnoxious, never ending noise. There was no escape. Not even the closed and locked door of my bedroom could keep their fierce cacophony from invading. No headphones were strong enough to block out the aggravated shouts of my siblings arguments. No room was empty of their pointless jabber and inconclusive disputes. I needed an escape, but freedom always seemed out of reach, or so I thought.

It was a humid afternoon, only a few weeks after school had started. Everyone was extra stressed, which in my house, translated to extra loud and argumentative. I needed an outlet before I erupted in a flood of frustration and anger. I decided to go out, get some fresh air, and examine my previously unexplored neighborhood. Swiftly, I told my dad where I was going, grabbed my bike, and charged out the door.

I was a bullet speeding down the sidewalk of the quiet neighborhood. Everything was a blur of colors. The green of trees, red doors, white picket fences, and the rusty brown of brick houses. The colors all swirled and danced in my peripheral vision. Suddenly, between green leaves, I saw a glimpse of bright yellow, orange, and a streak of grey. With a jolt, I brought my bike to a stop. I dismounted, my curiosity getting the best of me, and walked over to the border of trees that partially concealed the unseemingly colors.

What I saw seemed out of place in a neighborhood such as mine. Behind the row of evergreens, was a miniature, fenced-in graveyard. Small headstones, no larger than two feet, were scattered about, nestled safely in a carpet of pine needles. Each headstone held its own story, one I was eager to learn. I ventured farther into the unknown, past the graveyard, and towards what looked to be a playground. Being in such close proximity to the cemetery, it’s bright happy colors seemed out of place. But at the same time, the contrast in moods was oddly appealing. I’m not certain of what kept me in the miniscule area, but I felt tied to it. Maybe it was the quiet of the hidden playground, or it could have been the millions of stories the graveyard held. Perhaps it was the calm and serenity the area insinuated, or the sense of freedom this idle space granted me. Whatever it was that kept me there, I’m thankful that it did.

That area became my oasis. When my house felt too full to contain another being, or when my head was tearing at the seams with the amount of stress I was under, I escaped to the hidden playground. There, I was able to think and problem solve. The only noises were those of nature. The area was free of shouted arguments, escalating debates, and angry door slams. In that area, I could be inspired, focussed, and care-free. While I was there, I lived in the moment. I pushed school, my family, and any other annoyances out of my mind. The hidden playground was where I felt I belonged. There I could relax and fully focus on my goals and aspirations. I was able to kick my duties and obligations from the spotlight and give my wants and desires a chance to shine.