My Place of Silence

Nadine's Silent Place behind her home in Glen Lake.

I've been told that when I was a baby and would cry inconsolably, my father took me outside and pointed out the species of trees and the different birdcalls. I very quickly quieted my own screams so that I could better listen to his words, my little eyes wide. I was often found huddled next to my dad as he read National Geographic magazines out loud to me. I daresay I was a very informed little girl. Ever since I could form sentences together I would say "listen, it's a kingfisher", or "look, a 13 lined ground squirrel!"

As I grew I began to take myself outside as a way to unwind. I had forgotten much of my father's tutelage but I still enjoyed the simplicity of being outside. As the rest my peers became interested in more metropolitan and modern ventures, a feeling of unease entered my earth-covered little heart. I began to feel very out of place until I met a friend who shared my distaste for plastic and stale air.

We spend long hours outside, lauding the fresh air, the views, and the diverse weather of our Northern Michigan home. To us, the outside was home. It was more of a home than any four-walled structure.

The sun peaking through the trees reminds us of the mysteries of our youth.

We explored our need to be women of the forest, through books, and our own devices. We determined that we needed to be able to climb trees expertly, so we walked for hours looking for the perfect tree to do our learning on. We settled for a scraggly ironwood that was far from perfect, and slowly but surely made our way to the near top. Once we were able to climb like monkeys, we then took on the art of archery, and then fencing (with fallen branches of course), then eventually the more scholarly endeavor of herbology.

Within the span of one summer we took our lives back a hundred years. We wanted to run and play in the forest and soak in every last bit of the dwindling supply of natural open places in our world. We found our place in the verdant bosom of rural Michigan, out of time and space for just a while.

In particular, my favorite place was a little valley that we dubbed "The Lair". To me, it was the ultimate escape from the fake life I felt that I was living indoors. Places were the treachery of plastic could not reach me. My friend did not share my exact sentiments. We both looked upon The Lair with a feeling of awe and respect, but hers was more out of fear, being more inclined to the sunnier side of the great outdoors. The Lair earned its ominous name by being the creepiest place either of us had ever visited.

Fallen and forgotten trails of yesteryear.

We initially had found a quaint, forgotten logging trail that put us in the mind of the English countryside. The bright little trail led us, rather deceptively to the darkest, deepest, and most mystical reaches of the 21^st century. There lay a valley, dressed in a shawl of ferns that bled a green so vibrant it was nearly blinding. At the center of the valley there was a spot with no life. A copse of dead trees stood like the bodies of shelled soldiers. And directly across from us was a gateway of immense silver beaches, daring us to attempt to cross. I was struck by the impossible silence of the place. I was slightly disconcerted and slightly exhilarated to hear my heart rate increase. No planes flew overhead and no birds chattered. I had obviously fallen out of my world, but I wasn't quite ready to leave. It was so silent that my breath, to me, felt like the beat of a base drum, goading me on. I had never been in a place without distraction and I felt as if the very air I breathed was more pure than any other air in the world.

Enchanted, I staggered down to the copse of dead trees, feeling an inexplicable pain at their death, as if they had died young, defending some unknown cause. I could see it now. They were ominous and disturbing. But I knew they were misunderstood, silent reminders of some great magical battle. I was sure of it. I paced among the ruins of the battle with mounting exhilaration. It was unfortunate to find that my friend had sprinted pell-mell from whence we came in sheer terror. I met up with her in a well-lit cornfield and we established that we had just been immersed in magic.

The place of silence, a chapel, to sit and ruminate.

I, by myself, made more pilgrimages to the Lair, but only when I felt that it was absolutely necessary. I made it my chapel and found a pile of unnaturally white, moss-covered rocks on which to sit and ruminate. I found a delightful amount of quartz among the white rocks of my altar, and a colossal felled tree. Among these things I felt safe, as if I were among silent kin. I became part of an ancient order of silence that was indefinite in years or power. It was a never-ending cycle of thought and purity. I used my visits to The Lair as landmarks in my life. They were new rungs on a ladder I built for myself in my place of silence.

Nadine Gilmer is a student of Glen Lake High School, where she is involved in Envirothon, Students for World Awareness, Student Council, Band, Heroes, National Honors Society, Cross Country and Track.