April 5, 2018
Ironically, the memory of my defining moment is a little fuzzy around the edges. I think I was about four years old, when my mother took me (and likely my younger sister) to visit a friend of hers in upstate New York. I don’t remember the friend’s name or the town…Troy? Utica?
But here’s what I remember: It was chilly outside, maybe early winter, and I was running around the yard with some other kids. The neighborhood wasn’t densely populated, and I recall lots of open space in which to run in the cold air. I escaped the other kids and found my way under a small grove of pine trees and sat down. It was like a little peaceful house underneath the boughs, and the soft ground was blanketed in long, thin pine needles. I felt cozy and protected. And it smelled good. I was sure this was a place where I could stay forever, alone in nature.
When it came time to go home, my mother found me under the trees and coaxed me to go. But I didn’t want to leave. She didn’t understand that I wanted to stay there under the trees in my house, forever. I still long for these kinds of places today (hence my penchant for tiny houses and the woods).
So really, as a four-year-old, I subconsciously knew something special about myself, that I had the makings of a little introvert. But I didn’t understand this until decades later.