The Haven Inside

At first the marshland is indistinguishable from the pale sand-colored buildings surrounding it: there are no bright colors, no activity, and few people visible on the horizon. Subtly, however, patches of vivid yellow-green dandelion leaves appear, versus the sun-bleached tan-and-turquoise colored business buildings standing close to it. Peace emanates from the park, whereas from the industrial buildings arrives a despondency and monotony of routine. The chattering of people in conversation floats in the air of the marshes, while silence envelops the solid, unblinking false eyes of the manufactured faces staring out into the street, like soldiers on guard duty standing still as statues. Shollenberger Park is a haven created by nature in a town increasingly relying on industry and business.

A concrete path wide enough for three people to walk side by side circles the lake for about a half a mile, continuing with gravel and ending at the metal gate where it started. Cattails rustle softly in the breeze, halfway done shedding their pale yellow fuzz. Occasionally small black birds with an oval of red on each of their wings will land on a cattail, which moves wildly—wobbling and swaying, dancing and bucking, jerking and drifting—until the bird suddenly flies away amid annoyed twittering and the flapping of wings. Songbirds flitter around each other and sound their melodies, elusive nymphs watching and calling from their obscured nests. Chirping, twittering, purring, staccato notes and shrill peeps echo across the lake as a pair of seagulls circle overhead, the male humming a low “mMm” and the female screaming a high-pitched “Aoh!,” alternating as they chase each other across the background of thin pale wisps of clouds and pale sky that has just enough blue to distinguish it from the fluff that floats in it. On the far shore, ducks congregate, bobbing on the surface, sometimes diving for food during which only their tail, if you could call them tails, and rarely their webbed feet, are visible, the tail vibrating as the duck kicks its feet. Next to the beginning of the concrete trail, a pair of geese forage, hissing at passerby and returning to searching for nutrition.

A whiff of the chilly morning air reminds me of the section in Costco where the vegetables and sometimes fruits are stored to prevent spoilage. It is the fragrance of a finger-numbing morning with sugary frost coating the rooftops and the lawns, the essence of clean, fresh air that I sorely missed in China, untainted by heat or moisture or smoke or food or pollution or smog or sweat or crowds. The blinding white winter sun sparkles with a hint of heat; it has just begun to warm to the earth after they quarreled last summer, as they usually do. Gentle ripples pursue each other to the three bleached wooden picnic benches-and-tables close to the parking lot. Scraggly scratchy bushes, tenacious weeds and violently bobbing cattails can be seen along the trail. A few red flags, wooden posts with maps, the rough concrete path, the occasional droning of planes and whizzing of cars in the distance on Highway 101 hint at people; almost no other sign of humans in the marshlands exists. Occasionally the metallic tih tih tih tih of a bicycle and the crunching of runners on the gravel near the start of the concrete path can be heard.

I remember when I was in sixth and seventh grade. It was a tumultuous time for my family, so my mother, sister and I would go to Shollenberger Park as an escape from our uncertain prospects. Our days as a family would reemerge—my sister would race off on the path, sometimes with her bike, and every so often on a visit I would jog, our mother panting with exaggeration and calling for us to wait. I loved deluding myself into believing for the duration of the visit that our problems had merely been like the fuzz of the cattails, blown loose and far away with the gentlest wind. My wish was nothing more than a wisp of a cloud herded along by the breeze at the time, but it was there that I found that a shred of hope can bring me far.

Shollenberger Park contradicts the stark man-made structures around it. The two business buildings next to it are almost identical, sandy-colored with turquoise ridged domes and many windows. Dark, obscuring, glaring—the windows almost reek—that is, if they could reek—of business. The arrangement of the windows and symmetry of the buildings is immaculate. They are quite deserted, their parking lots almost empty, their structure organized, their windows revealing virtually nothing within. Upon closer inspection, desks, computers, and papers can be seen, as well as the name of the company near the roof. In all the years that I have gone to Shollenberger Park, I have only seen two people come out of the twin structures. Other than that, there is almost no sign of human presence there. The fact that the park and the buildings share a lack of human presence is of no true value, however, considering that the buildings are abandoned.

The park is intended to be recreational and enjoyable compared to the industry-oriented edifices cornering it, but there is more to Shollenberger than just savoring the outdoors. It is bliss, a delight in old pastimes that can be uncovered in a few minutes of free time. It is a haven, an escape from oppressive and unsatisfying lives. It is patience, endurance of bleak times. It is perseverance, determination to not be overwhelmed by the demands of society. Finally, it is faith, a single, solitary hope that would, during a time of despair, unlock the haven inside us that we call peace.

-Carol