Asa Alexander

It started when I was young, beneath the lanai of rural skies, open blue and laden with stars and clouds. In the forested place where I was born and raised, in the lush forests and acres of pastoral splendor, I began to grow and construct memories as a child. My first home: the 1700’s log and stone house in the Pennsylvania backwoods. There was magic in the world then: glowing fireflies floating through ferns by the river on summer nights. Listening to slowly nearing owl calls sounding over moonlit snow, and my dad’s whisper, “Don’t be scared, bud.” The time he held my hand in the cold as we watched Halley’s comet streak the sky with stardust. There were nymphs and fairies and small colonies of mystical beings that were only visible to me in my imagination. Those same mystical beings I read about in bedtime stories. There was some mystery calling to me from the throat of the wilderness, like an untamed shout cloaked in a whisper that I felt drawing me outdoors. I was a child of dirt and leaves, gardens and summer sunshine, gravel roads and falling snow. I would run out on my stoney driveway in hellish thunderstorms and shout at the sky to show me more, as if it somehow would.

I believe that old place is the reason I grew to be who I am; it birthed me and shaped me. It coiled me up in its foliage and vines and showed me the purity of creativity and the punishment of isolation. The call drew me out into the wilderness day by day, regardless of weather. It drew me to deer trails and fishing holes, natural paths to rustic wonder that allowed my imagination to run wild. From my earliest days of coherence, I remember loving stories of fantasy, romance and mysticism. There was something so perfectly fitting about the place I lived, the quietly fearful boy I used to be, and the comfort I felt watching my television and novel fantasy heroes rid their worlds of evil. I wanted to be just like them; they all seemed so certain of their purpose and so willing to give every ounce of themselves to acquire it. So I found swords and other fun weapons growing from trees in the shape of sticks, and tall weeds became my foes. I would spend hours hacking and slashing through the greenery, my gentle little hands unbound and unfettered by the responsibility of age. In my young mind I could be what I dreamt of being: a real hero—my perfect idea of a man. I could be someone beautiful and brooding, strong and brave in his tender solitude. I wasn’t just fighting my invisible enemies for fun, but as practice for an idea of my future self as a warrior of peace, consumed within some indelible purpose.

Thinking back, some of my most memorable walks in the woods as a child are when I had the most existential of moments. It is strange how the potency of certain experiences is often only visible in hindsight. They were instances where I would stop to absorb the scenery and breathe in the clean air, briefly and utterly content. As an adult, it can be so hard to find any time to breathe. One adventure stood out in particular, when I decided to take a walk one snowy morning. As I watched the snow falling outside my window, I felt that familiar call to adventure, like a silent shout on the howling winter wind. I used to love the snow as a kid. I made sure to bundle up with a hat, scarf and gloves, while mom and dad gave me their usual “Stay warm, bud.” I grabbed my favorite walking stick and set out alone. I walked up toward a grove of trees that had been burned by a wildfire many years before I was born. The charred bark was beautiful in contrast to the white accumulation around it, and the melancholic grey of the sky and falling snow was a perfect backdrop to my mood. Making my way across the acres of burned tree line I came upon a long-forgotten wooden fence. Only a small part of it still stood, the splintering wood wrapped in a tangle of dormant vines. I stopped in my tracks though, when I spotted the flawlessly preserved skeleton of a fox tangled in the mess of vines. It seemed so ancient, like it had always been there, waiting for someone to walk by. Like a perfect monolithic shrine, so understated in its grim simplicity. I remember feeling empty but strangely fulfilled as I stared, and I felt that I could shed a tear but it didn’t seem right at this memorial so impeccably preserved. Instead I recall closing my eyes and saying a kind of prayer to nature in the memory of the nameless fox. It was the first time I ever felt a true connection to the disparity between life and death—an unforgettable moment of existential beauty.

I opened my eyes and watched the snow fall on the sun-bleached bones for a while. I thought about how the vines continued to live and grow, but the animal they intertwined never would. This was life and death in its simplest form. I can recall for the first time, feeling a nearly theological connection to nature’s grand minimalism. The sound of the world was muffled by snowfall; the only thing I could hear was the whipping wind and my own shallow breath. I was completely alone, but I felt companionship in the memory of this once-living thing—this perfect altar to the circle of life. I got up and made my way back home; it felt like I was walking through a dream.

This is part of what my childhood home taught me: that we are only meant to live and die, that magic fades in the face of wizened realism; weeds are just weeds and bones are just bones. The true enemy isn’t necessarily physical. It resides in within like a shadowy passenger, quiet but alive. Humans have this innate fear to change and take chances on themselves, and I am no different. When I think of my journey to that snowy shrine though, I reconsider the value of living in the present, as challenging as it is. It becomes our responsibility to shape our own destiny, just like my heroes and adventures showed me. My life will end as quickly as it began and I want to spend it in a way that concludes in contentment, free of monetary constraints and societal pressure; true minimalism.

Reminiscing on childhood memories like these helped me realize that we are heroes in our own tales—we are indeed on a romantic journey, fighting beautifully, sometimes darkly for the possibility of contentment before death. I cannot thank one specific memory, but my entire childhood environment for building the framework of who I am. It allowed me to see what I want from my life, and it does not appear to me in the color of money. It bleeds through in the green of pastures and hills, wet leaves and dripping honey, and the love of a woman. It helped me realize that I want to see minimalism and simplicity throughout my life when I look back at the end. I want to be blissful like I was as a young hero. I want to let the days slip away in a slideshow of happiness and die a moral man to the sound of a flowing river, perhaps like the fox had. My adventures showed me that there is catharsis to be found at the end of my journey: an emotion worth fighting for. That there is some kind of perpetual peace on the horizon where life dips off, just like my heroes found—an undiscovered paradise.