It is in a three-story cabin in the mountains of Southern Utah that I again say something wrong. The building is home to my grandfather and grandmother and this was the week I was visiting them as I did every summer. I had been having a wonderful time; I had not even fought with my sisters the whole trip, but I just had to open my mouth and now I am miserable. Grandpa is waving his arms and shouting angrily, red in the face. Harsh words assault my heart and force the salty droplets of water from my eyes. I need to run, to escape the tense and upsetting situation but I am given no chance. Grandma gives me that much needed opportunity when she comes to the rescue with soft yet sharp words moving in front of me. I dash out of the room and down the two staircases faster than a bullet. I reach the outdoors, the falling tears creating trails down my cheeks. The short distance feels like eternity, but I eventually reach Demeter’s paradise.

At first it appears silent; however, as my overloaded senses slowly begin to relax I begin to process that that is not the case at all. There is a crunch as I walk over yellowing and brown leaves that blanket the soil, speckled with patches of light filtering through the cover of trees. The sweet melody of bird song is a gift from the whispering breeze. The high pitch whistle of the marmot makes me jump as she greets me from her place atop a log pile that has been sitting there for as long as I can remember. A doe passes me, her fawn close to her side. Staying perfectly still I watch as they eat the food left out by Grandpa earlier that week; my presence does not bother her one bit. I can feel the warmth from the sun caressing my skin as I sit on a log that rests in the clearing. At one point it had doubtlessly been part of the pile Mrs. Marmot made her home but now it was free from the fate of its brethren and instead could be showered with sunlight.

The agelessness of the place strikes me as I looked around. The sturdy Ponderosa is easily several hundred years old and will be standing for several centuries to come. ‘The Big Tree’ as I so originally christened it at age five, is the biggest tree in the area. In fact three grown men, hand in hand, are unable to wrap completely around the great mass of the towering pine. A tree’s root system is said to run as large and deep as the tree is tall, it is hard to believe that ‘The Big Tree’ is actually twice the size I see it as. The same relaxing feeling is exuded from this small clearing behind the cabin. It is a spot seemingly free from the constraints of time. Contemplating this, and taking in the sweet, quiet odor released by the sap of the trees, I take a handful of the mixture making up the earth. The fine dust filters through the minute gaps of my fingers, leaving woodchips and pine needles in the palm of my hand. I try bending one of the rectangular pieces of wood but find it strong and sturdy. The pine needle will not break either, though it will bend in half. Trees may be firm and unyielding but humans are susceptible to the stresses and are pushed to their breaking points. It is here that those pressures that weigh on me disappear, as if they never existed to begin with.

The slightly thin but pure air, mostly unspoiled by oppressive and pungent smelling pollution fills my lungs; the fight no longer weighs on my mind. I know that the strong, wise giants bury their feet deep so that they can provide shade for the poor lost creatures seeking refuge. They are the guardians, the protectors, and the calming influence that makes this spot what it is. When one falls, there will be another, maybe not as tall or old but it will grow and protect. Here in Demeter’s Paradise, everything exudes a sense of calm complemented by splashes of yellow and white from tiny flowers paint the area. This mostly green and brown haven is my own little slice of heaven where the pain from the argument melts away and my tears dry up. Everyone needs that place they can run to; this is mine.