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A "Happy Place" |
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~ Unknown Two years ago, my father gave me a calendar to hang in my office—an oversized World Wildlife Fund calendar. I had been using it for a few months when I realized that the days of the week didn’t match up quite right. “Hey, tomorrow’s Saturday! All right!” “Um, today is Tuesday, Monique.” Utilizing those same lightning quick skills of deduction (i.e. looking at the front of the calendar) I realized that it was dated 1995. Oops. Well, I still used it as decoration for the rest of 1998 and for 1999, and as of March 2000, the dates are once again correct. I knew it would come in handy one of these days. Whenever I get any new calendar, I always flip straight to March (my birthday month, as you well know) and make sure the picture is pretty. This calendar features scenes of nature, like Mount Everest and the Belize Barrier Reef. My 1995 calendar has been a good friend these past three years in part because the picture for March is one of the most spectacular scenes of all.
It’s a picture of Lake Llanganuco, Cardillera Blanca, Huascaran National Park, Peru. Just the sound of the name makes me want to go there, and I have never had any attraction to South America in my life. The caption reads, “Situated between the snowy Cordillera Blanca (White Mountains) to the west and the snowless Cordillera Negra (Black Mountains) to the east, Huascaran National Park in Peru is admired for its contrasting mountain landscapes as well as for its 188 lagoons.” I don’t know how the World Wildlife Fund found such a place, and why they decided to put it in their calendar; it’s fascinating to me. I have hung this picture at eye level on my new wall, and every time I look up, I see this scene. It’s an instant relaxation technique, this tangible embodiment of my happy place. It represents escape. Paradise. It represents being anywhere but here. The way the scene is framed by the trees makes me feel as if I am being embraced by their leaves. The shadows on the rocks assure me that this outcropping is shady and cool, and the water is green, clear and inviting. On a hot day, it is crisp and refreshing. On a cold day, it is like stepping into a warm bath. I imagine myself picking my way over the mossy rocks, inhaling the scent of fresh green leaves. My olfactory system picks up the crisp smell of the distant snow, as it breezes down over the water, creating the gentle ripples you can see on its surface. Birds sing—parakeets, which are wild in South America—from the upper branches of the trees. I see a fluffy one that’s pale yellow. I see another one, a male, with a sea green belly. Everyone else in the world has forgotten about this lagoon. The last time anyone even thought about it was in March of 1995. It is a secret place, and I have traveled all the way to Peru to claim it for my own. I have no fear of discovery as I peel off my dress and toss it over the branch of the tree. I place my fingertips against the truck for balance, until my bare feet find purchase on the soft, giving ground. First one toe, kicking a spray of water a few feet out towards the lake’s center. I find that the water is the perfect temperature and begin stepping slowly forward, first on the smooth rocks that line the shore, then on the white sand that takes their place. My toes sink deliciously into the fine grains as my body is enveloped by the water, one inch at a time. I have been able to swim since I was three. I love to swim. I swim now. I do handstands and somersaults. I do the butterfly, the crawl, the breaststroke, the backstroke. Even dog paddle. I twist my body like an otter; I kick my legs like a dolphin. I move myself through the water effortlessly, weightlessly suspended in a giant bowl of earth. I swim until my muscles turn to water, until I’m exhausted and waterlogged. When I reach the opposite shore, I rise out of the lake like a mermaid who has been given legs. I am pleasantly drained, relaxed, warm. I eat wild figs and strawberries. I find my backpack—how did it get here?—with a tiny rectangular tent inside. I have blankets, pillows, clothes, books. Pens. Notebooks. Flicka. I’ll unpack later. I lay on a patch of sand, naked in the sun, and look up an the mountains that flank me. I smile. I fall asleep. I never come back. | What
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