During childhood, I spent a lot of time in trees. I climbed a magnolia into the sky and watched an amusement of clouds. A favorite eucalyptus grew from the earth in three trunks. It created a hiding place. I could sit inside a nest of leaves that accumulated in a three foot space. The branches on one side formed a wedge where I crawled to survey the world along with ants, beetles and bees.
In my tree castle, the broken base of a concrete bird bath served as a cannon to send oranges into the yard against any intruders.
My leatherette diary and fountain pens accompanied me into the scent of leaves and tweets of house finches. I searched for words to describe my observations; the tang of orange peel on my fingers. I taped leaves and dandelions in the back and a feather or two. This transferred a feeling of home to the pages. When I carried my diary during international travel with my parents, it provided comfort and become my mobile home.
I have always felt at home with my journals no matter where I travel or live. Writing transports me into the discoveries of nature's magic and mysteries.
Creative Write: Write about a childhood place of security in nature or where you first experienced writing.
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