A Quiet Place

It’s so hard sometimes to find a quiet place to think in our ever-expanding world of advancing technology and loud music. Sitting on the mauve colored sheets that stretch across the lumpy mattress which is my bed, I attempt to concentrate as I stare blankly at my computer screen, wistfully wishing that the words would write themselves to form an observational essay; outside my door are a jumbling mix of sounds: food simmering on the stovetop for dinner, the rattling and shaking of the washer and dryer from the hallway outside my door, the pounding of pop music against the sky blue walls as it is plays in the next room , and the TV, which so kindly echoes the voice of the cartoon character SpongeBob Squarepants, blasts throughout the entire household; homework pages are strewn all around, both across the bed and on the floor. I glance down at those pages on the floor and at the several different headings, all in different fonts, with different purposes-all of these originate from the same subject of study, English.
As an idea manages to sprouts into my mind, the ruckus outside my door grows and the idea is lost. I can feel the heat of anger slowly rise to the breaking point; this is when I leave my computer, grab my jacket and keys, and leave the house for a little walk around the neighborhood to let off steam. It was around four o’clock when I departed from my chaotic household and the sunny sky was clear and bright, smiling down upon the world with its invisible rays of happiness and friendship, none of which, at the time, brought me any of that.
I walked a route that I was fairly familiar with, having walked it with my mother numerous times before. The seasons were in the midst of their changing from winter to spring and everything looked so new. The flowers, most of which still resembled little bouncy balls, were just beginning to bloom. The air was luscious and cool against my exposed skin, and the taste of the first spring shower was sweetness all on its own. The sounds of newborn birds formed the perfect cliché of springtime with the chirping of their song celebrating new life. Spring is sweet smelling flowers, succulent air, and fragile newborn chicks.
By this time, I had wandered blatantly off the normal path and found myself at the entrance of a side pathway. Its doorway opened up to the busy street, but was secluded and kept secret by the overgrowth of tree branches. I had driven on the road so many times, so why had I not noticed this here before? I made a decision and followed the pathway. Slowly, the bustling noises of daytime citizens decreased in volume until they had vanished completely. I noticed the lack of car noises and glanced up from my black boots from which I had been staring at for most of my walk. Around me, a magnificent picturesque image displayed itself to its only occupant: me. The ground was made from bricks of red stone cemented together and paved smooth; the stone pathway curved here and there, winding its way through the cherry blossom trees which, like everything else, were in bloom and added a beautiful pink tone to the scene. To my left were the backyards of houses, staggered so that the back corner of one backyard touched the other corner of another backyard. Every ten feet there was a wooden bench and at each bench there stood a representation of an old English lamppost whose light was not yet shining. To my right, blackberry bushes lined a wood and steel fence that blocked any persons from entering into the creek. Although the creek was not particularly large in size, the runoff from the showers filled the creek enough to provide a faint sound of trickling water as I continued through this mystical grove. The grass was also a bright and new green. I pick a blackberry off of the bush and watch as the maroon dye stains my fingertips. The scent of blackberries is mouth-watering, yet I prevent myself from indulging in this pleasure for, I am civilized and I understand that they must not be eaten until washed. I wander along some more until I come to a tree where one of the blossoms had fallen onto the bench below. I lift the blossom with great care, feeling the silken petals as they brush against my skin. I smile because my anger is gone.
This is my quiet place: A place where I can go to experience the calamity that is offered through the simplicity of nature and its natural resources. Compared to the buzzing worlds that we get sucked into, the world is noisy and my place is serene; the world is stressful and my place is calming; the world is always on a schedule, but in my place, time can be endless. Between the outside world and its ability to pull one into their own individual world, it is nice to get away from all that and enjoy what nature had to offer us, even a hundred years ago when there were no such things as cars or phones or computers. It is the evil in technology that disrupts the natural connection that all humans feel to nature.
The caramel and cotton candy covered sunset sky marked the point with which I had to depart my quiet place, but I could tell that the image would stick and I would not forget it. Every aspect of the grotto, the cherry blossom trees and the stone path and the benches and the lampposts and the blackberry bushes and the sunset sky, created not only a serene image for me to visit when life gets out of hand, but a place that reminds myself to slow down and take a look around every once in a while.
~Haley