The Meadow

If one were to wander just far enough to lose the sound of the human voice in favor of the wind in the pines overhead, far enough to ponder the possibility of being lost, the meadow will appear. I found it a few times, but now it may as well exist solely in my memory, as it is unlikely I will ever lay eyes upon it again.

I have not been there quite enough to know the path, so it surprised me every time just how abruptly I reached my destination. One second, I meandered under the protective shade of the pine trees, ducking under branches as I traversed a self-made path, and a moment later I was just there—there was no in-between. The sun burst through the branches and nearly blinded me with its strength; my body was suddenly enveloped in liberating warmth. The knee-length grass brushed against my knees with a faint whisper, where only steps behind me crouched the brittle remains of parched shrubs that had tried to tangle themselves in my shoes and around my ankles.

My eyes struggled to adjust to the acute brightness. Each time I came, I was unable to prepare myself for the overwhelming allure of the scene in front of me. The meadow was entirely clear, untouched—the grass stretched for hundreds of feet down a shallow slope that eventually led to more trees. One single tree perched in the center of the field, decrepit and gnarled with decay. Its branches stretched skyward, forming a misshapen shadow under the blazing sun. The bottom of the hill opened to a picture-frame view of the forest for miles, stretching to the horizon, where mountains loomed, visible as jagged gray shapes carved out of the earth.

The sky overhead was barren of clouds—I stared at the sheer, crisp blue that was so deep and thick with color that it was hard to believe it could exist naturally. This sort of phenomena appeared throughout the area, especially with its high altitude and thin air, but this one place seemed to bring it to life. The part that stood out most, however, was the flowers that grew by the hundreds, scattered about among the waving grass. They had taken over, with nothing to disturb their growth.

It may as well have been pulled from a storybook—only it was better, since I could feel the wind gently caressing the skin on my upturned face, and I could smell the unexpected combination of the strong, raw scent of pine and the sweet aroma of wildflowers. I closed my eyes, in awe of my surroundings, and I could still see the sunshine filtering pink through my eyelids.

I heard a distant call from someone in the group, from the other side of the mountain. The time had come to leave, to descend and rejoin civilization. I wished everyone could have known about this place, just as I had discovered it, but simultaneously I wondered how much magic would be lost if it were to be marked by human intrusion. I climbed the hill and returned to the trees, stepping immediately from soft, drifting grass to the crunchiness of the fallen needles that coated the ground. Within seconds, the meadow disappeared behind me, covered again by the massive trees that towered overhead. A minute later, I met up with the group and we left it all behind.

For a place that seemed to be disconnected from the rest of the world, from reality even, it seemed a surprisingly short travel back to the present.