When I was a little girl my dad built me a tree house in the
greenbelt of my Grandparents’ backyard (they lived 20 miles outside of Payson
in a little neighborhood, in the woods, called Deer Creek). There was a path,
which I made of large stones stacked side-by-side in two rows large enough for
me to easily walk between, leading from the end of their backyard to the base
of my massive tree. It was my tree, you see, because back then I
just kind of said so. On either side of this path there were plenty of cacti
and other plant life growing wild. A section of this path led into a make-shift
“Zen Garden” of rocks that made a swirl pattern towards the center. That took
me a while.
My tree house had three levels made of old crates; first
level, living room; second level, kitchen; third level, room with a view… of
course. I would invite my imaginary guests to take their shoes off (I never
did, I’m not an idiot) once they climbed the four or five pieces of plywood
nailed to the trunk – or, the entrance way, I’d like to call it – and we would
sit for a moment while I would catch random bugs from the corner of my eye and
pretend my skin didn’t just crawl. Typically, I wasn’t much of an imaginary
friend participant, so I often, being the only child, spent my time alone in my
tree.
My grandparents’ house was far enough away so I could feel a
sense of freedom, but within a comfortable eye-shot so I wasn’t scared. Which I
blame on my Grampi and all of the ghost stories he has told me, and will have continued
to tell me, over the years. I may not have cared for imaginary friends, my
imagination was more of a lone spirit, but I always had a whirl wind of bizarre
things and situations going on up there under that blonde head. The only thing
that has changed about that today is my hair is brown and my head only got
bigger.
Anyway, this tree - my
tree - is where I would make wishes, plan my adventures, or think about what I
would probably rather be doing at the moment. I remember for a while there, I
had deeply and truly wished for a mountain lion friend. I literally have no
idea why I wanted a mountain lion so badly, but, then again, there was really
no rhyme or reason to my thoughts. No one ever knew about my far-fetched wish
and, obviously, the lion never came… or at least not when I was expecting.
I found out from my Grami, only a couple years ago, 20 years
after my tree house days were over, that there was a mountain lion found
wandering in the greenbelt just beyond their yard very shortly after I had gone home to my mom's for the new school year. I don't know why my grami brought it up all that time later, maybe we were talking about that old house, but it had me thinking - perhaps the lion was searching for
something.
I guess the point of this tiny glimpse into what this “city”
girl did while she was a “country” girl visiting her dad, is that wishes – big or
small – do to tend to find you. It may take years for us to figure it out, like
my silly mountain lion wish; and, whether it was a coincidence or not, it has
left me with a bit of wonder and a hope that maybe we really are being heard,
and it’s just us that are the ones not listening.
Everyone has wished upon a falling star, blew the pods off
of a dandelion into the breeze, tossed a coin into the fountain, held their
breath under the tunnel, squeezed their eyes shut at 11:11, or even picked off
every petal of a flower hoping the last petal will be “he loves me.” No matter
what your beliefs are, there is no religion for hope and the power of making a
wish.
Make a wish and then continue going on with your
life.
But this time, live with your eyes open.
But this time, live with your eyes open.
happy wishing.
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