writing my way home

Sara sat peacefully in her front yard, under the shade of an old maple tree.  "Her tree", as she knew it. It had been hers for almost nine years now, since the first day of her family's arrival to their new home.  She had been 8 years old then and very much a tomboy.  Just about every kid in the neighborhood had told her that the tree was an impossible one to climb, but Sara was optimistic and made it to the top on her very first attempt.  After that, she knew that the big tree belonged to her, and throughout the years it had remained her faithful friend.  The name of every boy she had ever had a crush on was carved into the highest branch.  When she needed to be alone, the cool, quiet shade was always there for her, or at times like this, when she liked to be close to nature and write down all of her deepest thoughts into her spiral notebook.

Sara rolled around and relaxed her back into the softness of the grass.  A warm summer breeze blew lightly across her face, and barely rustled the leaves hanging from the branches above her.  A feeling close to heaven overcame her body and Sara wished that she could hold on to it forever.  This was were she found ultimate happiness.  Her heart was here, in every inch of the tree and every space on the ground below it.  This was her home.

There is more to the story, but I'll stop there.  I found this in a box in my parent's basement.  A box full of many notebooks, full of many stories.  This is me paying homage to my teenage self.

I wrote stories all through my childhood, just for fun, but stopped when real life set in.  I didn't think I was good enough.  I didn't think being a writer was realistic.  I didn't have the time.

I really wish I hadn't listened to that twenty-something year old girl, who thought she knew everything, but made most of her decisions based in fear.  I can't blame her for not knowing all of the things I know now.

I doubt if I'll climb the tree on my first attempt, but I'm going to try.

Writer's block: over