Private Property

Where are the quiet places?

Nearly every day I drive past a new bridge being built. It's beautiful, and situated on a spacious piece of land. One afternoon, desperate to walk somewhere without houses or cars, somewhere without people to stare, I spontaneously turned at an entrance near the bridge. I parked my car at the little fabric store and stared down the gravel road ahead of me. I could see the bridge in the distance, and was eager to get a closer look. But before I could take a step, a woman came barreling out the door of the fabric shop. "Can I help you?" she asked, in a tone that suggested she would prefer to do nothing of the sort. "I was just wanting to see the new bridge," I replied, innocently enough. I suddenly felt like a child again, caught getting into something I wasn't supposed to. She retorted immediately. "You can't. This is private property." She looked at me accusingly, as if I had intentions to graffiti the pristine creation, or perhaps set fire to it. I stopped in my tracks and looked at her for a moment. I had forgotten where I was, I suppose -- had forgotten about things like private property and trespassing in this town where there are no quiet places. No quiet places that are mine.

On an early afternoon run yesterday, I turned off my music, slowed to a walk, and listened to the soft thud of my feet hitting the pavement. The sound of my breath methodically leaving and entering my body. I could hear the birds chirping. I must not have heard them for some time, because the sound caught me off guard. Spring is nearly here, I thought. I closed my eyes for a moment as I walked and pictured my old running route in the mountains of Thailand. First past a street of homes, dogs sun-bathing in the streets, motorcycles parked outside of gates, the sound of chickens cawing and sometimes the smell of garlic and chili frying in pans of oil. I listened to the thud of my feet -- the same here as it was there. I imagined the mountains hugging me close to the left, and looming in the distance to the right. The lonely pink pagoda. The tall, slender eucalyptus trees, their smooth white bark, slender mint-green leaves. The trail wandering into the mountains on my left, past a litter of banana trees, a cluster of bamboo shooting up into the sky ahead of me. I would climb up the steep hill to sit at the top and watch the sun descend over the mountains in the distance. It was quiet. No one told me I wasn't allowed to be there. No one told me I was trespassing. I sat until the sweat on my back dried, until I felt I had enough quiet to fill me up. Some days, I could have sat for ages.

 

My first year in Thailand, I found a dirt path behind my school that ran alongside a lake. I was ecstatic. I felt like I myself had discovered it. This would be my quiet place. It became the spot where I often retreated to watch the sun dip below the flat rice paddies of Kalasin. One late afternoon, I wandered out onto the piece of rocky earth jutting into the lake to sit and watch. I can remember feeling the last warmth of the sun on my skin, the last orange-yellow light before the blue of evening set in. I heard the water stir to my far right, and was startled to find an elderly woman bathing in the sun-warmed water. Her wet skirt clinging to her legs, she smiled and said something I can't remember. Then, all fell quiet again. We shared the silence, the last moments of light, the feel of the water running through our fingers. When I glanced over again, she was gone.

I don't know where it is I'm made for.
But here I find myself longing to feel close to the earth again, to find a quiet place of my own outside of walls and away from the sound of engines starting and garbage trucks beeping. I don't want it just for a weekend. I don't want it in the form of a park, or a hiking trail littered with families. I don't want it just a little bit. I long for it. I'm certain that it is nature that keeps me sane, keeps me from feeling stagnant, tired of my own skin. I am easily bored, often antsy, often thinking of where life will take me next. But nature I never grow tired of. No matter how many times I ran past those mountains, they never grew less beautiful. No matter how many times I had seen them, I never didn't stop to look just one more time.