Close your eyes. Imagine yourself deep in the gulch of a canyon, the light filtering through trees that form a long tunnel as far as you can see. Feel the wind running cold fingers down your shoulders, through your hair, over the back of your neck. Imagine that it’s 4:30 p.m. on a Thursday after school, and you don’t have a care in the world. Yes, the log you’re sitting on is a little damp and possibly crumbling beneath you. Yes, your feet might be a little uncomfortably tight in your hiking boots. No, not even the stats test tomorrow can put a damper on your spirits. As the birds chirp, there’s something almost akin to serenity present in the air all around you.

Except not everything is serene. Or at least, not for me, or the me that had chosen to drop off my backpack and take a sharp left down to the valley near Westview right after fourth period. In my rush, I’d neglected to snag a single snack. My pockets were empty of granola bars, my hands bereft of trail mix no matter how desperately they patted every pocket. And now my stomach was rumbling, growling, groaning. Because of the noise, I couldn’t feel quite at ease, even if the birds were chirping beautifully. Like the nearest edible material, inner peace was just out of reach back home in the pantry, or somewhere in the bushes, unidentifiable or too fast for me to catch and roast over a fire. 

Still, all was not lost. If I couldn’t immerse myself in physical satisfaction, at least my senses were sated. After all, if there’s one thing that’s beautiful in San Diego right now, it would be the hills. The onslaught of rain of the last few weeks has been a blessing in the sea change its made to the yellow-gray dust we were once so familiar with—a rolling, whispering blanket of green has sprouted its way across the hollows and gullies of once-parched meadows and valleys. 

That afternoon, I found myself in one such valley, tucked beneath the shade of trees that probably hadn’t seen so much water in decades. Everything was cool and green and a little bit dim—the sun hadn’t started setting yet but its trailing movement was already looming close to the horizon, like a signal and a warning of the scant forty minutes I had to make it home before it really began to darken. 

Standing there in the glade, I vowed I’d return and find the calm that had so eluded me. Shaking a metaphorical fist as I brushed off my knees and got up from where I’d been sitting, I promised myself that before long, I was going to make it here again with necessary supplies in tow.

The next week, I was back again, this time with oatmeal raisin cookies. Like last time, I was brushing off a few assignments, ignoring some of the reminders pressing at the corner of my consciousness. Like last time, despite it all, I still felt an uncertain peace. And unlike last time, when I got to my log, things felt right in the world. Or at least, in that small corner of it. 

Amidst the trees and the tender saplings and the budding heads of flowers peeking from the soil, my oatmeal raisin cookie felt very big, and very small. Like many things, it’s been a choice that I’ve been able to indulge, an inkling of space that I’ve chosen to leave to myself and myself alone.