Tracing the Roots

It's a quiet mid-August afternoon when my feet hit the dirt trail leading into the park. There's an opening in the fence at the bottom of the hill, across from the road leading up to my childhood home. The home to which I no longer return and haven't for over six years now.

It's been more than six years since I've walked these trails, but the years will never erase the muscle memory of pounding these paths with tired yet anxious feet during the fall seasons of high school. They will never erase the traces of adrenaline rushing through my veins, the endorphins pushing me forward as I finish the last half mile of a cross-country race along the creek and over the bridge leading to the field adjacent to the parking lot. They will never erase the vestiges of wonder as I stand on the beach, overlooking the dark water of the Long Island Sound on an unseasonably cold October day, watching the snowflakes fall.

As I make my way along the trails speckled in shadows, I think about all the times I trampled this dirt with soggy sneakers or a twisted ankle. How I pushed through the pain and the stitches in my side, working my way upwards, navigating the jagged rocks and jutting tree roots of the steepest hill which was aptly named "Cardiac Hill." How I sprinted the last few feet across the grass to the finish line, giving everything I had left to the point of nausea.

The echoes of excitement, anticipation, and determination still linger among the trees, but something else emerges as I walk across the bridge and the parking lot towards the beach.

The saltwater breeze brings a sense of calm and relief as I sit on a bench overlooking the water. The gentle waves of the sound are soothing, though they are not as prominent as the booming waves of the Atlantic Ocean. Living on the north shore of Long Island, I was accustomed to almost waveless water laced with seaweed and floating jellyfish which would eventually wash up onto the rocky beach. I grew to endure swimming lap after lap in the cold water that barely warmed even at the height of the summer. Swimming lessons during the summer could be brutal on a sunless day, diving into the dark water with horseshoe crabs crawling beneath my feet.

But as I sit on the boardwalk watching the seagulls dip and glide across the cloudless sky, I appreciate the peacefulness in the presence of the water. Although I no longer live on Long Island, I've never strayed too far from the coast, always feeling the force of the tides keeping me close to the ocean.

Walking back to my car, I reflect on how these grounds hold so many memories. Memories charged with elation, disappointment, reprieve, and everything in between. I have learned to cherish my time in nature and appreciate the relaxing qualities of the natural world, especially in times of stress.

I drive up the road, leaving the solace of the park, and pass the house I called home for over twenty years. The bones and the foundation are the same, but things have changed. The old wooden fence replaced with a white vinyl paneling, the front door painted to match the black shutters, a yellow shrub planted in fresh mulch in front of the living room window. And that is only the outside.

The current state of the inside is a mystery, but I know that house will always be filled with countless memories of birthday parties, game nights, and family dinners. Those special moments continue to live on, and that house remains a significant part of my life. So much so that I still have dreams about going back home.

Driving through the neighborhood, I wonder what the neighbors think as I drive by. I no longer have my New York license plates or the same car I drove the last time I was here.

Do they think I am just another out-of-state visitor?

Am I someone who doesn't know the neighborhood?

Am I someone who doesn't belong?

Maybe I don't belong. Not anymore.

Growing up, I thought it was the perfect suburban neighborhood with quiet streets lined with towering maples, oaks, and evergreens. There was a reason many of the streets bore the names of trees. But returning now, the neighborhood seems emptier, less wooded than I remembered. I am disappointed to see yards devoid of trees that had stood for decades, bushes cut back, flowers uprooted. The grass is lush and green yet missing the abundant variety of life. Everything looks too fake, too perfect, too organized.

Every time I come back to Long Island, which has been less and less frequent over the past few years, I am shocked back into the high-strung, fast-paced, and overcrowded environment. It's not surprising that my anxiety stemmed from this place.

But the place that bred my anxious tendencies also bred my resilience. It bred my motivation and led me down a path to self-acceptance. It bred a love and appreciation of the world's natural beauty. It shaped me into the person I am today.