I am eight and I am too chatty. I am too high-strung. I talk too loudly and too much. I should eat less pasta. I should learn to like my tea black.
I am eight and I should be capable of sitting still. I should be less argumentative. I should want less than I do. I should learn to brush my hair.
I am eight and I shouldn’t need so much attention. I should suck my stomach in. I should dress more femininely. I should be less curious about the world.
But I am eight, and I have learned to tune out the noise, spending my time outside: wild. Barefoot in the yard, where the overgrown green grass and weeds tangle around my feet. Slightly wet and cold. The garden smells of flowers, blackberries, and poorly kept plants. I run through the yard, the curly hair I can’t take care of flows behind me, matted in a wild mess. There are three eighty-acre stretches of wild surrounding my house, and I have mapped them out perfectly.
I know if I keep running to the right of my house, following the powerlines into the canyon, I’ll come across a creek:
A creek that runs to a pond, which my sisters and I named Terabithia (a rather morbid name that only my oldest sister who picked it understood).
Terabithia, where my middle sister stood on an ant pile and ran screaming back to the house.
Terabithia, where we spent a football Sunday carving our way through the manzanita, blackberries, and poison oak just to discover it.
Terabithia, where I go to read now that my sisters no longer care for our outdoor journeys.
Terabithia, which only exists in the early spring before the summer heat dries it all up.
If I run to the left of my house, I can follow the stream upwards, and if I run far enough, I’ll end at my secret treasure trove:
A spot enclosed in trees, where I have dug several holes and created hiding spots for my special things. In the bottom of a shoebox, lives my journal, packed among buttons I formed a particular liking to (primarily stolen off of my parents’ clothing unbeknownst to them), undelivered hate mail I wrote to my family when I was mad, pebbles, and dried flowers.
I know not to run beyond my secret treasure trove because any further and I would stumble into the neighbors ' marijuana field, and my Dad told me the neighbor has guns.
If I run straight out the sliding glass door of my house, up the big hill, I’ll find the neighbor's house (the not scary ones):
They run a multi-generational bird seed company, a front. A large property with four generations spread out. They have a big apple orchard; they told me I could pick apples from the day they caught me roaming their property, and I thought for sure I’d be in trouble.
I rarely go up there, but I can see their work garage from the lawn. They run saws all day, and sparks fly out—a constant metallic chatter to soundtrack each of my days.
I am only eight years old, but I have learned the gift of the wilderness. I have learned that inside my home, I am many things I should not be. But out here, I am wild. I am an explorer. Outside, I am a girl, I am a boy, or, most times, I am neither. I am simply writing notes to fairies, or I am skipping through the creek, the hem of my dress getting muddy and wet. I am making up songs, I am making forest castles, I am making found object crowns and wands. I am whoever I want to be.
In the wilderness, I am shameless, I am king of the world, and I am nothing but eight.
I am eight and I am too chatty. I am too high-strung. I talk too loudly and too much. I should eat less pasta. I should learn to like my tea black.
I am eight and I should be capable of sitting still. I should be less argumentative. I should want less than I do. I should learn to brush my hair.
I am eight and I shouldn’t need so much attention. I should suck my stomach in. I should dress more femininely. I should be less curious about the world.
But I am eight, and I have learned to tune out the noise, spending my time outside: wild. Barefoot in the yard, where the overgrown green grass and weeds tangle around my feet. Slightly wet and cold. The garden smells of flowers, blackberries, and poorly kept plants. I run through the yard, the curly hair I can’t take care of flows behind me, matted in a wild mess. There are three eighty-acre stretches of wild surrounding my house, and I have mapped them out perfectly.
I know if I keep running to the right of my house, following the powerlines into the canyon, I’ll come across a creek:
A creek that runs to a pond, which my sisters and I named Terabithia (a rather morbid name that only my oldest sister who picked it understood).
Terabithia, where my middle sister stood on an ant pile and ran screaming back to the house.
Terabithia, where we spent a football Sunday carving our way through the manzanita, blackberries, and poison oak just to discover it.
Terabithia, where I go to read now that my sisters no longer care for our outdoor journeys.
Terabithia, which only exists in the early spring before the summer heat dries it all up.
If I run to the left of my house, I can follow the stream upwards, and if I run far enough, I’ll end at my secret treasure trove:
A spot enclosed in trees, where I have dug several holes and created hiding spots for my special things. In the bottom of a shoebox, lives my journal, packed among buttons I formed a particular liking to (primarily stolen off of my parents’ clothing unbeknownst to them), undelivered hate mail I wrote to my family when I was mad, pebbles, and dried flowers.
I know not to run beyond my secret treasure trove because any further and I would stumble into the neighbors ' marijuana field, and my Dad told me the neighbor has guns.
If I run straight out the sliding glass door of my house, up the big hill, I’ll find the neighbor's house (the not scary ones):
They run a multi-generational bird seed company, a front. A large property with four generations spread out. They have a big apple orchard; they told me I could pick apples from the day they caught me roaming their property, and I thought for sure I’d be in trouble.
I rarely go up there, but I can see their work garage from the lawn. They run saws all day, and sparks fly out—a constant metallic chatter to soundtrack each of my days.
I am only eight years old, but I have learned the gift of the wilderness. I have learned that inside my home, I am many things I should not be. But out here, I am wild. I am an explorer. Outside, I am a girl, I am a boy, or, most times, I am neither. I am simply writing notes to fairies, or I am skipping through the creek, the hem of my dress getting muddy and wet. I am making up songs, I am making forest castles, I am making found object crowns and wands. I am whoever I want to be.
In the wilderness, I am shameless, I am king of the world, and I am nothing but eight.
