While I was still young enough to be concerned with spelling grades, rather than MLA citations, while the life expectancy of my hand-caught tadpoles was of more concern than that of my relationships, while the tooth fairy still left notes in strangely familiar handwriting under my pillows, I lived in Oregon, next to a patch of woodland that can only be described as the most gloriously magical place a kid could ask for. Some places you hold so carefully in your heart that you know you will never be able to revisit them, because the memories are too precious to be altered by the way it would appear if you were to return, older, changed. For me, the woods is one such place. I spent countless hours there as a child. It became a character in my life, with a presence and influence that I only grow more aware of as I move farther from its physical location. It lay just beyond the dead-end of the road where we lived, which encompassed a steep hill with houses crowning the sides and summit. The run down that hill felt like flight, as though a single bounding leap could tear the runner from the grasp of gravity itself. With arms outstretched I would run full tilt with the wind in my face, letting the scene blur around me, the thrill only slightly dampened after I found my feet still firmly attached to the ground once I reached the bottom. Even that slight heartache was quickly forgotten, because from there it was only a quick scramble through tall wild grasses and into the trees. From the point forward, everything was imperceptibly different. The air changed, neighborhood noises became muted, and the exchange of shadow and light together left a world without harsh edges that held seemingly endless possibilities. I think that it shaped me, that place. Even now, as much as I love living in the city, I still find myself with a constantly present yearning to seek out spaces of green and patches of wildness where I can recapture that feeling. That feeling manifests in multiple forms. They include my weekly trips to pick out flowers at the farmers market, and the love I have for my apartment because of its location. For even though I live in the middle of the city, when you sit on my sun-washed wood floor all that is visible out of the window is blue sky and tree tops rustling in the wind. According to Carl Jung, our personal experiences echo the collective consciousness of humanity. While I can't define precisely what motif from human history my connection to nature echoes, it is undeniable that man and nature have an intrinsic bond.
