Behind my house there is a web of back roads. Unpaved, twisting, hilly roads full of potholes and frost heaves. These roads are always quiet, a lone car occasionally disturbing the stillness but soon racing around the bend out of sight. It is a little haven of country as yet undisturbed by the town life surrounding it. Fields stretch out on either side of the road and occasionally sections are hedged by woods of tall trees.
I often walk back in these roads. One stretch in particular has become a favorite haunt of mine. It is a section parallel with my back yard, though several hundred yards and a vast collection of trees separate them. This section of road is twisted, weaving a serpentine path through the trees on either side. To the left is a sharp incline, going up toward the sky. Trees grow out of the incline, growing upward despite their off balance roots. To the right is a steep valley. A quiet stream snakes it’s way across the bottom, with another incline on the other side of the water.
The road is lined with my forest friends, for my friends they are. Those trees have witnessed my tears, they have witnessed my laughter. They have witnessed my hopes and dreams. They have witnessed my dancing and they have witnessed my falling. Some days they wave at me. Other days they bow and applaud my bold singing and twirling within the privacy of their boughs. Some days they are silent, watching me as I dream and ponder.
Each season brings a new garb for my wooden companions. In spring, they glow in new green robes. Their covered branches allow me to play peek-a-boo with the sun, who winks at me playfully. Flowers pop up on the side of the road, showing off their newly birthed splendor and perfume the air with their sweet fragrances. Down in the valley, the stream turns to a river, roaring with the remnants of winter. In summer, the trees almost completely block out the sun, allowing a respite from the heat. The shade creates mystic shadows, dancing along the road. Breezes are amplified and the air feels clearer, cooler. In autumn, the green robes turn gold, scarlet, and brown. Beautiful, bright colors spread like a patchwork quilt in the boughs. Crisp air nips my cheeks, numbing my legs as I walk. The wind tangles my hair, playing with the trees as they dance in the gust. In winter, the trees lose their quilt and bear a thick blanket of cold goose feathers. Their branches bend toward me, offering their hands and protection.The road sparkles with beautiful white diamonds, crunching softly beneath my feet. It’s my own personal Narnia, snow falling softly and trees watching me.
Aside from the trees, my thoughts are my faithful companions. This lane is the home of my dreams, my memories, my hopes. The faces of my friends, happy times and old adventures appear in the landscape. I remember laughter and tears shared with friends. I remember long conversations, playful bantering, bright smiles and warm hugs. I remember old jokes and happy accidents. I dream of future adventures, familiar faces in new settings. I dream of romantic nights and picnics. I dream of nights out with my friends. I dream of teaching, a class full of energetic students looking up at me. I dream of impossible things. Because in that lane, in that quiet lane with the tree watching over me, my dreams are coming true.
