Alternating My Reality
Nicole Bribitzer
Humans crave beauty. I think it calms us down. No one goes on vacation to the city; to retreat to a grey metropolis of tar and concrete. Instead, we hire travel agents to take us to some remote corner of the earth, somewhere beautiful, exotic, and maybe even magical. It’s the divergence from normality which intrigues us. And we’ve all separated ourselves so far from a nature that we were intended to live in. It’s no wonder we’re constantly feeling that need; that desperate desire to go back.
Having grown up in the city, you develop an appreciation for nature that suburban and country children lack. Parks are not lush, grassy knolls surrounded by plenty of trees, but metal playgrounds, shiny and hot in the afternoon sun. Outside of the Bronx zoo, the only animals I saw in my neighborhood were scrappy stray cats and that squirrel that old Mrs. Homeyack put peanuts out for.
One morning, my father told me that we would be going on a trip to the country. Years ago, after much hard labor, my grandparents saved up and purchased a bit of property in Connecticut, essential to every city-dweller bogged down by noisy days and starless nights. But to a child, leaving the neighborhood during the summer was the worst. My friends from the block watched my dad pack up the car and asked me where I was going. When I mentioned the country, one of my friends perked up. “Well, my parents took me to the country once. There wasn’t even any TV. And the ice cream man never comes.”
I watched through the back window as we pulled away from our small apartment at Lockwood Avenue, my friends riding their bikes behind me, seeing me off. I cried as we got onto the highway despite my dad’s protests that I would have a good time.
Being separated from all my friends and my street for the first time, was so difficult. I didn’t realize there was so much waiting for me outside the city limits. Reality for the average American, whether in the middle of the city or in the middle of suburbia, is moving from one man-made building to the next, traveling within a tiny steel car. No one stops anymore to smell the roses, so to speak. Every once in a while, we must grow so desperate for something else, something beautiful, something untouched by the sweaty human hand, that we seek out nature.
By the time we reached Connecticut, my tears had dried. I watched as more and more trees dotted the sides of the road. Eventually the highway became a main road and then a winding pathway through the woods. I cranked the window down and let the breeze hit my face. Breathing in deep, I didn’t recognize the smell of fresh air carrying the scent of musky wild roses and sweet honeysuckle. The smells of the city were much different. The air here lacked the scent of the gasoline or hot tar that usually stung my nostrils.
We pulled into the dirt driveway of a house barely visible from the road. As soon as I swung my legs out of the old Buick and let my feet touch the soft, spongy earth, I was enthralled. Wild, orange Daylilies grew in patches lining the dirt path towards the old house and unseen birds chirped and cawed in their hidden perches. A bit of white near a big blueberry bush caught my eye, as a bunny leisurely hopped back to his rabbit hole. Flowers dotted the shrubbery. Tiny dots of color within the verdant background of the forest bordered the house and its adjacent golf course. Large, draping Pink Azaleas, tiny, bright buttercups, and pale, purple Meadow beauties were arranged in wild, colorful bouquets that turned the wooded area into a cornucopia of color and beauty.
I followed my father into the smaller building of the house, which he kept referring to as the Little House. “We’ll just put our things down in our rooms and then we’ll go to the Big House and I’ll make some lunch. We’ll pack it up and we’ll go down to the lake, you’ll love it there.” I entered the tiny house that contained only beds and a small bathroom with just a toilet and sink. I placed my bag down on an old mattress and followed my father to the Big House. The Big House, much larger than the other building, held a big kitchen and an enormous, wooden, dining room table that stretched from one side of the room to the other. It felt like the inside of a church, the kind of building that demanded respect. And it smelt like what I imagined the inside of the earth smelt like; damp, dank, but strangely addicting. Everything was alive here, even the house; built out of wood instead of concrete and drywall. I could feel the earth breathing under my feet.
After my father was done in the kitchen, we put on our suits, piled back into the old Buick, and started off towards the beach. It was much different from the beaches that we usually went to in New York. It was like a grassy park, complete with picnic tables and swings, which turned into a sandy beach close to the water. The lake, unlike the powerful ocean, held small waves which steadily clapped onto shore, like a heartbeat. I stood for a moment taking in the beauty before me. Forest lined the lake, a vibrant green dividing the dark sapphire water from the bright blue sky.
I spent the afternoon basking in its loveliness, swimming in the cool water and laying on our towels soaking up the sunshine. Its light provided a blanket of warmth as we sat and consumed the chicken salad sandwiches and Hi-C juice boxes prepared for us. For the first time, I knew serenity. I felt new, like the water had washed away every problem I’ve had, and when I got out, there was nothing in the world but me and the sun.
As the day came to a close, we returned to the country home, and my father started to build a fire. We sat in silence, roasting hot dogs on sticks, smearing them with brown mustard and eating until our bellies were full. After we finished, he lit a cigar and I wandered off, exploring the dark. The fire crackled in the distance, barely audible against the sound of the crickets. The air became chilly and I pulled my sweater tighter around me. As I squinted, my eyes adjusting to the darkness, I spotted a hammock in the distance, between two large oak trees. Once inside, I laid back, and immediately I lost my breath. The sky was luminous with tiny pinprick of lights. I had never seen so many stars.
This place had a soul, an energy I couldn’t describe. It was like I followed Alice through the bunny hole. Looking up at that dazzling night sky, I felt so far from my tiny apartment in the city. That’s what nature becomes for most people, I think, an escape from reality. Nature intoxicates. It makes you feel alive, and young. I think that’s the biggest part of it for me. Nature makes me feel like I’m eight years old again, lying in that hammock.
Maybe that’s why I’ve always been fascinated by it. Growing up for me, was like a stranger coming up and ripping my eyelids off; abrupt, painful, and harsh. Suddenly I was thrust into a world called reality. Each “life lesson” was like one disappointment after another, magic isn’t real, beauty fades, love changes, and at the end of it, when we die, there may be nothing at all.
Getting older is like dying a little bit, I think. People become spoiled by the world we’ve built around us. It comes in the form of a greedy man, who will knock down a country home, to make a monstrous house; in the form of father, lost to lust, who destroys a family. It comes in the form of envy that consumes us, making us immerse ourselves in a race to win nothing but green paper to help us demolish more earth. Reality destroys nature. I go back to that land sometimes; the hammock is still there, despite all the alterations that have been made to my childhood paradise. I go there and remember a time when things were simpler; when magic existed and love lasted and beauty just becomes more beautiful.
When I’m outside of reality, in nature, maybe I can escape the disappointing truths of life. Maybe man-made rules don’t apply unless you’re around men. Maybe I’ll finally find whatever I’ve been looking for. Maybe I’ve finally found some peace, like I did that night that changed me. That night staring up at the hundreds of twinkling stars. It made me want to cry and laugh and gaze up at them forever. My lids grew heavy though, and soon I was no longer in the hammock, but in the sky, with the stars, and I never wanted to go home.
Previous Page
Back to Horizons Spring 2007 Vol. 24
Next Page