11-12-2009, 04:35 PM
Disillusioned Eden
"Remember, my child: Without innocence the cross is only iron, hope is only an illusion & Oceans Soul is nothing but a name..."(Bless the Child by Nightwish) Ah, innocence: the eternal concept that poets and philosophers alike have lamented over for centuries. The loss of innocence changes reality and shatters perceptions, that is the way it has always been. Nevertheless, we still stubbornly cling onto the bittersweet hope that the magic of childhood will return. In the end, we are all left with this inevitable change in which we selfishly mourn, yearning for our innocence to be restored.
My heart belongs to California; Or rather, remains delusively attached to the state in which my innocence was cultivated. I hadn’t been back to my hometown in so long, and my anxious heart longed for sentimental familiarity. As I sit in a raggedy red pick-up truck, bittersweet memories of carefree days flood into my head. Those days are long gone, but I still yearn for things to be the same. My body sways with each swerve of the car as it drives us down the winding country road, each curve revealing yet another long stretch of raw wilderness.
This intimate labyrinth leads us deeper into Castro Valley, a town so small they don’t even bother to put it on most maps. The sun, as if a shy and timid child, momentarily peeks out from behind wispy grey clouds and the thick morning fog abstracts the distant view. The thriving valleys, mountains, and hills present themselves as a sublime reincarnation of the curvaceous womanhood of mother earth.
Cows graze happily in lush fields of grass and grain, bringing truth to the infamous cheese company’s slogan. Gracious, intertwining trees line the other side of the road, hiding and teasing me with random glimpses of the crystal water creek below. I dare to reminisce about the sweet melodies that could only be heard in the night, of singing crickets and croaking frogs, cooing over the gentle trickling of creek water on top of sleek boulder and stone.
Before I realize, we are traveling on the rugged gravel road that leads up to my old home, now owned by a family friend. As I jump down from the truck and walk up to the quaint, flat-roofed cabin, the fresh smell of pine and dander embraces and cures my homesick nature. I stroll past the empty lot of where my neighbor’s house used to be, remembering when I used to play in this abandoned area, prodding through the ashes, discovering futile treasures and sitting upon my pretend throne of a rotting tree stump beneath the oleander bush. As I walk through this nostalgic trance, a disturbing memory comes back to me, either forgotten or suppressed, roughly re-asserting its place into my mind.
I was very young, in a deep and peaceful slumber of lucid dreaming, and in the middle of the night my grandma jerked me out of bed.
"We have to get out of the house,” she whispered to me, her voice wavering with urgent undertones. Unsure of what was happening, I reluctantly followed my grandma with my heavy fleece blanket wrapped tightly around my body, and we frantically ran out of our home. Although still slightly asleep and fogged with confusion, I quickly understood when I saw the flames. The vision of my neighbors’ house ablaze shook me like a violent nightmare. I was wide-awake.
Other neighbors were on our roof, trying to subdue the fire with garden hoses, in vain. We stood at a safe distance waiting for more help to arrive, the blistering flames reflecting in our eyes. Our hearts were wrenched with grief as we struggled to breathe. Bodies either involuntarily shook with confusion or restlessly moved about in anxiety. The mood smothered us in desperation and yet bestowed us with the silent calm that ironically accompanies a crisis. In the drama of destruction, it is within these moments that our minds are left with an eerie sense of peace.
But our neighbor was still inside. We could all feel the smell of burning wood and plaster, searing our eyes with its intense heat, as the flames devoured and consumed with such greed. In a rage, they surged up into the black night sky, hissing and crackling; whipping into the air tiny balls of fire that shot up like ember fairies. We watched with fear and temptation as help arrived too late. His house burned down to the ground that night, and his ashes became one with the ashes of his belongings.
This news awoke and disturbed the community so greatly, but nothing changed with me. My innocence lay intact, protected by ignorance. I still went about exploring the rich forests and vast hillsides like I always had. I continued to lavish in my personal fantasies, getting lost in my imagination by chasing fairies and whispering to the statuesque sequoia trees. I carelessly spread a contagious smile as I went on my daily endeavors, occasionally stopping at Ernie’s house for various candies. Back then I had no grasp on the concept of death; it was simply an inexplicable word to me, utterly meaningless.
Now I know better, and this is startling. The sun isn’t as embracing as I remember it to be. The woods lack enchantment. The trees no longer speak of long forgotten secrets; only stale facts ring true through my eyes. Ernie now reeks of pedophilic intentions, or am I simply paranoid, tainted by mistrust. Everything is tainted. This truth is heartbreaking. The countryside still breathes an awe-inspiring beauty, but a vital factor remains missing.
How is it possible that every detail seems so different, even though it is essentially the same? The evolution of innocence is the ultimate perception changer. The eyes we possessed in childhood always become disenchanted with time. I used to see the world as pure, but now this vision has been distorted by a pseudo-truth called experience. I will always miss my effortless trust, my naivety, and the bestowed protection of ignorance; and even though there are tinges of disappointment, I can’t help but feel patriotic towards the childhood memories I hold so dear. “No, it is not only our fate but our business to lose innocence, and once we have lost that, it is futile to attempt a picnic in Eden” (Elizabeth Bowen).
Last edited by adoette_graves; 11-12-2009 at 04:36 PM..
Reason: i mis-spelled the post title
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