Freewrite in the dark

When I was a kid, my family and I would drive to the Adirondack Mountains, to a property remotely squished bin between Lake Placid and a small pond called Boy Pond. TThere, I experienced life at a slower pace, experiencing life at in a test tube, and allowing for my childhood experiences to be bottled up and kept forever.

One

There was a river than ran from pond to pond, running downhill for three miles, pulling and shaking over cliffs and hills, and, at the end of its journey, emptying out into a bucket—Cranberry Rapids,. We;d take Jeeps from place to place before sunset, enjoying the nature sounds and sights.

One night, around a campfire at Crandberry Rapids, I opened my notebook, grabbed a tiny bit of charcoal, and, in trying to keep as natural as possible, wrote a poem in the light of the fire and in the sound of the rapids around me. I still have that poem. My dad remembers the night. That was my earliest and proudest memory of writing—a blip of expression, embracing nature that surrounded me.