It was my island, not large, but was bathed in warm sunlight and dappled shade when it got too hot. Apart from the occasional bird cheeping it was quiet, and far enough away from others that they drifted completely out of my thoughts. The air was pine scented, and the trees caught the breezes, together two created a music of sorts, it formed the soundtrack of my life for a few years.
The hours I spent there still linger within that private place in my mind reserved for fond memories and, even now, many years later, I sometimes yearn for that place, that island of peaceful solitude.
I was nine years old when my island revealed itself and I claimed it as my own guarding its secret carefully, reluctant to have to share it.
My island was the top of a big car garage right alongside a stand of huge pine trees.
I'd been climbing one of those trees and, as nine year-old's do, decided to make my way onto the roof for a little exploration. Once there I found a nice thick bed of old pine needles which insulated the hot roof, a good deal of shade from the over-hanging pine tree branches and a gently sloping roof ideal for sitting and laying on. It seemed to be a perfect place for me to hide away from everyone else, namely my older brother (the only sibling I had at the time) and my parents; It gave me the space to process things, to rage about the way I was treated and how that made me feel.
I wasn't to know at the time of course, but that spot was to become one of the most important places to me as a kid, and here I am forty one years later still recalling it with a fondness based around its importance and impact upon my young life.
I was quite badly bullied and victimised as a kid; It started as soon as I went to school and I hated my parents for making me go back each day. I hated school and couldn't wait to get home and away from the source of all that pain and suffering.
One good part about school happened a couple years later when one of my teachers read the class a book called The hobbit, by J.R.R Tolkien.
The name sounded funny but from the first moment she began I was hooked, enchanted, and carried away from all of the terrible things I was subjected to in the real world.
The teacher read the book over the course of a few weeks and it was the only part of school I was interested in, probably because in my head I wasn't there, I was in Middle Earth with the hobbits.
Once finished I asked her if I could borrow it. Maybe she felt sorry for the little brownish kid that got picked on all the time; I don't know, but she handed it over and I carried it home with great care feeling privileged to be in possession of such a wondrous book, the teachers personal copy.
That weekend found me up on that roof, my island, with some dried nuts and raisins for snacks, my school drink bottle full of lemon cordial and that book.
I can remember looking at the cover, the picture, and feeling my excitement growing knowing what was inside the covers, but also eager to discover it with my own eyes, and the pictures I would create in my mind...I opened it and the world of reading began.
That started my love affair with reading and on days where the weather permitted, and a good deal that didn't, I was up on that roof reading. The Hobbit, then the Lord of the Rings Trilogy and, curiously, Alex Haley's Roots was the next. To this day I devour books as if my life depends upon them. It wasn't that I hadn't read before that moment, I was a good reader, but nothing captured me as this book had.
I didn't always wait until I got up to that spot, but it became a favourite place, an escape, a place to go and read, be carried away from whatever was going on in my real life and become transported into the book I was reading. When I got tired I'd put the book down, lay back and watch the clouds, scoot by whilst listening to the breeze in the pine trees, and breathing that fresh pine-scented air that seems so energised and soothing simultaneously.
My island was a portal, not just a simple garage roof, it took me anywhere and everywhere.
I don't think I had a bad childhood. I grew up on a large property with plenty of mischief to find, (and I found it), my parents did the best they could to teach me right from wrong, and provide for me. There wasn't much, just enough mostly. I didn't enjoy school of course, it was a terrible experience for me, largely why people have to work so hard to gain my trust these days; I made life about everything else though, it made that vilification, emotional and physical torment tolerable, or at least less painful at times.
I remember many things about my childhood with great fondness and finding my passion for reading sits prominently amongst them. Of course no memory about me finding books could be complete without my spot up on that roof as I spent so much time there with books of all sorts.
I'd go there when I couldn't face the world and escape to someone else's and you know, it's kind of funny now, thinking about it these days at times when I'm a little stressed, it brings me a little clarity and peace, all these years later.
I can't go to my island anymore as my parents sold the property some years ago, but when I pick up a book, settle myself down in a quiet spot and start reading it's like I'm there all over again and the act of reading brings me the same feelings and value it always did.
Design and create your ideal life, don't live it by default - Tomorrow isn't promised.
Be well
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