There's something about the way smoke clings to you that is deeply symbolic. I'm not entirely sure how it is symbolic but there is something very profound there. Last night I had a campfire with my friends and the smell of the smoke seems to have seeped into my hair and my skin so that I can smell it even now after I've taken a shower. It's as if the smoke knows that my summer is ending and I'll be leaving this place and these people. Because if the smoke stays with me, I won't forget how fun these last days of summer have been.
Recently, I've been caught up in one of my spells of melancholia.* It hasn't been a particularly hard spell but it had knocked me off my feet for a few days. I wasn't functioning. Had I been given more days to myself, I could have drawn in on myself completely and locked the doors as I have in the past. But instead I found myself bombarded by my friends and they charged into my life and all but forced me to throw a party. I was not happy but I agreed to host the annual, end of summer campfire, because I have an unhealthy need to please everyone.
Now, I can still smell the smoke on me as I type and I'm happy for my friends. Most of my friends from high school and home know that I struggle with what they call my "general unhappiness disorder." They've watched from afar as I've cycled through several really serious spells of my depression. It's not something I talk to my friends about but they know and they are supportive in their own way. They call me at just the right times. They sometimes force me to socialize when they know I need human connection most. They joke around and make me laugh. And really that's the best thing they can do.
The campfire party was a success. I live on a beautiful 25 acre horse farm. Behind our pond in the back field we have a small wooded area and a few clearings we've set up for campfires. It's secluded and hidden from view. The perfect place for 20 kids to have some fun. But none of my friends has actually seen the spot during the daylight. We only ever have parties in the back field under the cover of night. At night it seems like an eerie, overgrown dirt hole. It's a shame because I honestly believe that my family's farm is home to the most beautiful 25 acres of land in the world.
I know that's quite a bold statement. Maybe there is something of Willa Cather or Thomas Hardy in me. I see the land that I've grown up on as a character in my life. This farm and its beauty has helped me form my identity. While my friends were running around with the neighborhood kids in the streets of their subdivisions, I was running wild with my brothers and my sister on 25 acres of untouched nature. We had a stream to run through, a pond to fish in, fields to trek through, and woods to explore. When I played make-believe and pretended to live in a fairy kingdom, I didn't have to stretch my imagination too far because I'm pretty sure fairies really do live in the meadows and forest behind the pond.
I think there's a difference between those people who have grown up in the city or the suburbs. It has something to do with the feeling of pure Earth somehow seeping into your skin. Yesterday afternoon when I went to set up for the campfire in the back woods, I treked through the fields barefoot just as I had as a child. I felt the cool grass and the rich dirt against my skin. Growing up we never wore shoes if we were just running around the farm. Our hands and feet were always dirty and covered in the sketched design of thorny scratches on our skin. It's a part of who I am. This land, these 25 acres, are a part of my very essence (as cheesy as that sounds).
That's why when my parents talk about selling the farm and retiring to the beach, I feel such an utter despair. This place is my home. I may spend most of my time in cities and love the cosmopolitan lifestyle but nothing will ever replace my farm in my heart. I don't know a lot of happiness. My friends say I have an "unhappiness disorder" and that's about as straightforward as it can be. When I think of pure happiness, it's not my friends or family that come to mind (although they do play a large part in my life's happiness). Pure happiness, completely uncomplicated and untouched, is the land I grew up on. These 25 acres. Stone Bridge Farm.
- This post ended up being a lot more deep and philosophical than I intended. I feel compelled to say that I am not as classy as this post implies. The campfire party I hosted last night was nothing but a drunken night of sloppiness around a fire in the woods. Now, I am simply resting and recuperating before I start pre-gaming for a concert late. Because that's who I am. I'm a college kid. We pre-game everything. So, there you go. The real me - part introspective musings on the beauty of nature, part drunken sloppiness.
*Yes, melancholia. I aced the SAT Verbal test.
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