Prompt Blog #1

The landscape that I grew up around was always forests and streams at the edges of housing developments. Only in a state park could I walk into a patch of forest and not come out the other side in a manner of fifteen minutes of steady walking. Around my various neighborhoods, there were always a handful trees to climb in every yard. The backyards were spacious enough for tumbling across and the streets wound and dipped along with natural rises and falls of the land. Many of the children I played with were pushed to be outside much like my mom had pushed me. However, they always seemed better off than I was and were allowed more luxuries like having friends over, owning gaming systems, always having snacks available, owning small battery-operated jeeps or cars that were specifically designed for a child’s body. Our time seemed to be separated evenly between the inside and the outside. At least, that was my childhood. Throughout my teenage years, my peers seemed to migrate inside while I craved my daily walks around a new neighborhood in order to escape the emotional trials of home. Soon, gaming systems became more and more popular, but bike riding and playing tennis fell to bright sunny days only, and only when there was nothing else to do as opposed to something creative to do. Soon people began worrying about relationships and drama and cars and jobs instead going outside. I managed to keep my time evenly separated between the partial safety of my room, and the safety of my chosen “path” along the sidewalks and neighborhood parks of my walking route.

When I hit college, the reliance upon gaming systems seemed to become absolute. But I managed to form friendships with people who were from the county side. Ours was a friendship of nostalgia and self-reliance. We would discover little tricks we’d picked up along the way: smelling water on the air, judging the timing of storm clouds rolling in, lying on hillsides to gaze at the stars and do nothing else, actually enjoying the walk over campus to get from one class to another, not arguing when a full parking lot made us walk five minutes to class because it provided decent exercise. We’d discover that we were more independent than the students who had dived into societal problems like what fashion trend to follow, what or how many cars to buy, what alcohol to drink on which nights, and how many times one could get laid.

It seemed that the older one got, the further away nature became. Where were the streams and trees of childhood? A few were still there, but new tenants might cut the grass of an old house’s backyard too short, and disease might have gripped a favorite tree and caused another tenant to cut it down (or cut it down because it was becoming bothersome to them for whatever cosmetic reason). The streams and small parks were still there, but other groves had been mowed down to make way for new shopping districts; no more hearing the tall pines creek and groan as they tilted in the wind, no more shelter during a rainy day. As I grew older, people seemed to have forgotten the nature they came from. I remember, but had to let the current of life take me far from my beloved countryside and tree-filled suburbs to neighborhoods of concrete and traffic.

One day I’ll own a large house that can hold many friends who need a place to stay—to give back what was given to me during my time of need. The place will have a spacious yard and, hopefully, be next to a forest line. One day I’ll find the time to get away from an 8-5 cubical job and walk through nature like I used to—go bike riding again, swim in state parks, head to beaches far away, finally see the giant redwoods, possibly see actual mountains instead of just driving down them on the way to visit family. I would love to take my friends and family by the hand and go, “Stop, a moment, and remember how it was. What you have now is nothing like that.”