The Boy in the Woods

 

I’m ten years old, playing down in the creek at the base of our driveway.It’s winter 1974, and the woods surrounding the creek are wet from fresh rain.The acidic flux of old oak trees fills the air with a soft vinegar aroma, and the lichens smell earthy and woodsy, like a damp Harris Tweed jacket.I roll off the slippery bark of a felled tree, and return to my yellow Tonka truck, sitting half-buried in the mud along the creek bed. An assortment of metal Matchbox toy cars are scattered in the leaves, along with some plastic toy soldiers.The light is fading, and I await the call of my father’s booming baritone, yelling “Johnny, Johnny!” He normally calls for me, just before dusk, when Mom is preparing dinner. But he doesn’t call.The air is silent.It’s getting dark.I trudge up the deer trail, through the brush, careful to avoid the poison ivy that has led to itchy rashes in the past. I crest the last of the trail and emerge on our front lawn. The grass is strangely dry and brown, despite the winter rain.I hear scrub jays calling one another and playing in the woods behind our house. I make my way to the brick patio leading to my parent’s bedroom door but discover that it’s locked.

It’s strangely quiet.

I walk around to the front door of the house, but it’s locked too. So I ring the doorbell. Then I knock loudly.

Nothing.

I stroll over to the living room windows and look inside. All the furniture is covered with sheets. There are cobwebs where the walls meet the ceiling. Then I noticed no vehicles in the driveway.

A sort of panic settles into my being.

I continue ringing the doorbell and calling out to my parents. I run around and look into several windows. Everything inside is covered up with sheets. It looks dusty, old, and abandoned.

The sun has set and it’s now dark outside.

Beneath the moon and starlight, I find some beach towels on the back patio where Mom left them beside an old chaise lounge. With towels in hand, I make my way to the woods and climb up into the old treehouse I built.

I cover myself with the towels, as it’s getting cold. I curl up in a fetal position, feeling abandoned, afraid, and alone.

And I begin to cry.

That’s when I woke up from the dream.

My heart was racing, and my back was slightly perspired. I sat up and focused on exhaling slowly, to calm myself down.

It was strange because I was not ill, and when I went to bed I was feeling fine. I hadn’t even been thinking about my parents, my childhood, or the past.

I believe in everything until it’s disproved. So I believe in fairies, the myths, dragons. It all exists, even if it’s in your mind. Who’s to say that dreams and nightmares aren’t as real as the here and now? —John Lennon

The dream happened a few days ago, and I’ve been ruminating about it ever since.

What does it mean? Where did these troubling thoughts come from? What am I to make of it all?

An essay in The Viva Center states:

According to clinician Jacky Casumbal, “Dreams are our brain’s way of organizing events of the day, memories, and images into vivid, symbolic, and nonsensical storylines.” Nightmares in particular are “dreams that are often connected to unresolved anxiety and trauma that our brain has not fully worked through.”

I was with my father shortly before he passed away in 2008. And I held my mother in my arms when she passed in 2021. In both instances, my parents were well into their eighties and suffering irreversible medical afflictions. It was hard to lose them, but also a kind of relief. No more suffering.

In short, I accepted the deaths of my parents.

So where does such a troubling dream about abandonment bubble up from? What tangential events or thoughts could explain this subconscious landscape of childhood fear and loss?

And why is it still affecting me?

Our new kitten is asleep on my desk as I write this essay.

Perhaps he is soothed by the soft piano music playing in the background, or maybe it’s just the sense of belonging and security he feels being near me as I write. There’s something comforting about being safely at home with the ones you love.

When I was a boy I used to sit on my father’s lap as he wrote legal decisions on yellow pads with his Parker 21 fountain pen. I’d watch mesmerized by my Dad’s immaculate, copperplate handwriting.

Other times I’d hang out in the kitchen as my mother baked apricot squares for her bridge group later that evening. Or I’d venture upstairs and visit with my sister as she played with her Breyer model ponies.

But life marches on.

Many years ago we sold the family home after Dad passed away and it was too much for my mother to maintain. And then years later, I retired from my law enforcement career and we relocated from California to Nevada.

Mom came with us and lived comfortably in a nearby assisted living center until she passed away in 2021.

Most recently, my wife, son, and I downsized from our previous home here in Nevada to a new house only a few miles away. Also, I lost a friend to dementia this year, and have another friend who is in the throes of it. Yet another friend is battling an aggressive cancer. And a dear friend lost her mother, and I gave the eulogy at her funeral.

One of the difficult things about growing older is that you start losing so many friends. On the other hand, the older you get, the less time you have to wait until you see them again. —Ron Brackin

So there has been a lot of loss. And there have been other changes recently.

I just canceled my digital subscription to a popular online newspaper, after many years of loyal support.

Their updated digital format no longer reads like a newspaper, but rather like an endless blog. I much prefer reading the actual newspaper, but alas, the delivery was so unreliable I was forced into a digital subscription.

It’s a small thing, but I mourn the pleasure of reading the physical paper.

I used to clip out articles and send them to friends or slip them into my journals. My Dad used to send me newspaper clippings in his letters to me at university. I enjoyed the ink stains and tactile experience. Thus, the digital version is lacking for me.

I guess that’s part of what’s going on.

I’ve been slowly saying goodbye. To people, things, and the past ways of life.

To say goodbye is to die a little. –Raymond Chandler, The Long Goodbye

The world has become less familiar to me. The landscape keeps evolving and blurring. People don’t seem to take their jobs as seriously as they once did.

Everywhere I look, faces are immersed in phone screens. It’s like people have become transfixed by algorithmic addictions. Conversations are fewer, and the dogma of politics infects even the simplest of interactions.

I wonder if my Dad or Mom felt this way in their retirement years.

Maybe this happens to all of us.We get comfortable in our generational time, with its music, technology, and way of life. Until the world spins faster, ever-changing, and you find yourself trapped in a dream of the past.

A dream that becomes a nightmare.

Nightmares are sometimes associated with unmet psychological needs or frustration with life experiences.

As the essay in The Viva Center notes:

…our nightmares tend to reflect our troubles through metaphor rather than literal representation. For example, a person who is dealing with a stressful move might not dream of the move itself, but about falling off the edge of a cliff or running late to an important event. Likewise, two people may experience similar nightmares (about, say, finding themselves naked in a public space) but for wildly different reasons. These variations can make it difficult to find a single, clear “meaning” behind our dreams.

Experts often point to anxiety, depression, and trauma as the cause of nightmares.

Which is strange in that I’m quite comfortable and happy with my family, friends, creative pursuits, animal companions, and new home. And I’m blessed to be in good health and have no history of depression.

Some say that the loss of one’s career with retirement creates a sense of irrelevancy. We feel a bit adrift. But I haven’t felt this way, perhaps because I find purpose and meaning in my writing.

So what then?

I think there’s an answer for this lost boy in the woods.

Memories may be like a warm blanket in the winter of our lives, but they can also become a wet blanket preventing us from new experiences and positive change.

The more I cling to the past, to the “good old days,” the less I am willing to expose myself to new experiences. And when we stay stuck in the past, we stop growing.

The only way that we can live, is if we grow. The only way that we can grow is if we change. The only way that we can change is if we learn. The only way we can learn is if we are exposed. And the only way that we can become exposed is if we throw ourselves out into the open. Do it. Throw yourself. —C. JoyBell C.

Earlier today, I decided to escape the house. I took my dog, Nanuk, to the park, where the trees, birds, grass, and fresh air always lift my spirit.

There was a group of young teenagers playing volleyball in the hot sun.

One of the boys was being silly, wearing a football helmet, as one of the girls yelled, “You look totally ridiculous!” and he said, “I am magnificent!”

I had to laugh.

I guess not every kid today is glued to a digital screen. As I walked past, the two girls asked if they could pet my dog. “We have a husky at home,” the one girl said. “Well, this one is an Alaskan Klee Kai,” I explained, “They’re a lot like Huskies, just smaller.”

The girls pet Nanuk and then thanked me as they ran off for more Volleyball.

It was a simple, pleasant interaction. A gentle reminder that the world changes, but people will always be people. And the only way to keep learning, and keep growing, is to get out there and expose yourself to this amazing, ever-changing world.

Nanuk and I made our way back to my truck.

I closed the doors and turned on the air conditioner. Closed my eyes.

I could see my ten-year-old self in the dream, still in the treehouse in the woods. But it was different now. The sun had risen, and a few deer passed by below.

I no longer felt alone and abandoned.

I climbed down out of the treehouse and looked back at my childhood house one last time. I smiled and waved goodbye. To my Mom and Dad, and all the beauty and joy of those days gone by.

To say goodbye to the past may be to die a little inside, but it also frees us to move on. To open our hearts and minds to new adventures, experiences, and the promise of the future.

Pieces of an old Robert Frost poem came to mind:

The woods are lovely, dark, and deep

But I have promises to keep,

And miles to go before I sleep,

And miles to go before I sleep.

Perhaps we’re all just children in the woods. Afraid and alone at first, but then realizing how much there is to explore. We all have miles to go before we sleep.

Sitting back in my truck, eyes shut, I watched as the boy in the woods found a deer trail and set off to explore, learn, and grow.

I don’t know where the boy in the woods will end up. There are so many deer trails and paths to take. So many directions and possible destinations. I guess it doesn’t really matter.

All I know is that the boy in the woods is going to be okay.

Before you go

I’m John P. Weiss. I write elegant stories and essays about life. If you enjoyed this piece, check out my free weekend newsletter, The Saturday Letters.

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This post was previously published on Medium.com.

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Photo credit: Annie Spratt

 

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