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Tuesday, September 15, 2015

This park feels like some of the best memories of my childhood. My parents constantly planned day and camping trips to get us out of the house. Often on weekends, we would grab some snacks, a small toy or two, a book, and drive out to some place where we could climb around on rocks or sit in a creek and watch dragonflies and lizards dart by for hours.

This is the church of my childhood. There in the dappled gray, brown, and silver-green of the oak trees. The surprising bright yellow-green of new acorns. The lichen and moss in every shade of green, gray, and even dream-like silvery-blues. Dragonflies in reds, blues, and greens so bright they look like jewels among the cattails, or camouflaged, with translucent wings humming as they dart from place to place. The sound of water over rocks. The smell of leaves crushed underfoot, and of warm sunshine on rocks. In the stillness and the shiver of leaves in the wind.

I want my kids to remember days like these. I want them to learn how to be bored and how to find joy in being by yourself and sitting quietly. To find the faces and shapes of tangled roots and dirt and water and rocks and branches, and to make up your own stories about such places. To learn to listen and enjoy the silence.

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