On a campus made of 388 acres of gorgeous green woodlands, valleys cultivated little apple orchards with still-green apples on the cusp of harvesting. Under the sweet-smelling apple trees, there were meadows of wildflowers, specks of blue, white, and lavender dotting the land. West of the flowering fields there was a hiking trail, carved by the foot traffic of students who came before me. In the shade of titan green trees, various edible plants and fungi thrived waiting patiently for someone to study them. Further along the path, an old barbed-wire lined the right side as if it was holding back vegetation that was hard to identify whether or not they were poisonous.

From the outdoor theater stone benches, you could see how endless the woodlands were. Even though it was vast, I never once felt small in this pocket of the world. It was upon these same benches that I shivered in the brisk early morning air to watch the sunrise or to try and catch a glimpse of the infamous white doe. It was a campus belief that if you saw the ghost-like doe, you’d have luck coming your way. Some nights I believe I spotted her through the thickness of the post-rain fog, moving gracefully through the fields, tall beige grass bowing and rising.

It has been two long years since I had the opportunity to be in such organic, paradise-like beauty where peacefulness blanketed every part of me. It is no secret that the summer of 2017 was a crucial point in my journey. These two weeks spent in serenity of nature working and reworking my poetry slowly gave way into a realization that I never wanted to address. Three vanilla caramel lattes, and two revisions later; I forced myself to recognize the obvious thing that was holding not only my work back but my journey as well. Pain.

Flipping through ink and coffee-stained pages of my battered notebook, I found a plethora of writings that spoke of my pasts pain in obscure metaphors shrouded with mystery. I could count on one hand the number of poems that spoke on a topic other than the hurtful memories. Revising my creative work has never been my strong suit; but, by forcing myself to rework nearly everything I had written for the summer portfolio, I came to accept that to truly live freely I had to let go of the pain that kept me in shackles.

Letting go is so much easier said than done. It is, if you will, a learning process; or at least that’s how I like to think of it. While I have learned to let certain aspects of my past not hinder current or future relationships; there are still times where I struggle with it. That rainy day two years ago, under the shelter of a metal-roofed patio, I accepted the that there is and there will be life after abuse.

The remainder of my two-week intensive writers boot-camp was spent exploring the vast lush campus. Tucked into bits of this place were things I never saw before. One afternoon after a lunch of organic, sustainable mac and cheese, I came across a tree with a single lonely rope swing. Even though I did not stop to sit, it later became a place I’d hike to during my periods of free time. Some mornings I would pull myself out of my temporary bed at 5 a.m. Traverse through the slick wheat-like grass and dense fog, to sit atop a cold stone outdoor theater bench and watch the sun glow golden.

So much of my time there has become ingrained within me. I can still remember every pathway I took, every sweet smell, and every poem I wrote there. As a self-critical writer, I try to intentionally forget the past work I’ve written. The poems written during this time, however, are ones I keep reminding myself of; these poems are the ones that created a turning point within me. While they are not anything worth publishing or even showing anyone, they serve as a reminder that there are hope and healing in times of hurt, in times of brokenness. They are my lovely reader, my personal reminder that I can live free.