Happy Place

I pull my head up from the hard table, rubbing my eyes awake. I must’ve fallen asleep only a little while ago; there is still light outside. The trees outside my window sway in the breeze and I notice a few reddy-brown leaves falling from up high, landing in the tall grass of the field below. Shifting my focus inside, I look across the table in front of me and realise that dark chestnut wood is almost invisible. Maps, letters, news articles and photographs are strewn across the table, and I chuckle at my lack of organisation. I pick up a pile of photographs and look at the top image. An image I never used to have to look at. An image that I once took. A place where I once saw through eager eyes and a camera lens. I could reach out my hand to feel the dewy grass, breathe in the sweet fresh air and smell the soft scent of morning rain and eucalyptus leaves. I could once walk amongst the trees and feel that, even if everything else in the world were on fire, I was safe and happy. But now, my ‘happy place’ brought me nothing but sadness. Sadness and longing to go back to those trees, smell the eucalyptus and hear birds flapping and bugs buzzing just one more time. But I can’t.

I snap back to reality and shake my head to wake myself from my deep daydream. I place the photographs down next to a large album containing even more wistful memories. I resist the urge to open the heavy leather cover, to run my fingers across the gold lettering, to spend hours taking a deep dive into the photographs and the memories they would bring. If I did, I would be overcome, trapped in my own emotions, unable to breathe amongst the mixture of wistful happiness, longing, and regret.

I return to my mission of making the table reappear, and in my defence, I do manage to organise and put away a few pieces of crumpled paper before, once again, my curiosity gets the better of me. I pick up a crumpled and slightly ripped newspaper article.

Environmentalists claim government is fiddling while Rome burns.

I lower myself into a seat and rummage for a notebook and pencil. I cannot take my eyes off the article.

Protesters in nearby communities demand something be done about the rising rate of habitat loss and deforestation in the Green-Ridge area. Protests have broken out and it seems the young environmentalists of our generation will stop at nothing until our land, trees, and habitats are protected.

The words roll over and over in my head. Environmentalists of our generation. That’s me, I finally decide. I was at those protests. I am an environmentalist of my generation. And the article is right, I will stop at nothing to save the habitats and homes of so many animals. Because they aren’t just habitats, they are also happy places.

That tree isn’t just where a bird perches, it is also where someone has leant on after a long hike.

That hill isn’t just where the rabbit burrows, it is also where little kids would roll down until their heads were spinning and their skin itching from the grass.

That tree branch isn’t just home to a possum and a bird’s nest, but also an old tyre swing where many have fallen clumsily to ground, laughing with their friends.

That lake isn’t just where fish swim, but also where people swim, jumping off the jetty and quickly returning inside for a warm shower, hot chocolate, and a big barbeque.

Suddenly I realise, this is what I have been looking for. This is reason for my disorganised table, the reason for my hours of work. I will write a letter to the mayor, to the newspaper, on social media; make it available to whoever will listen. I will show everyone my point of view, show everyone why these places need saving.

I write it all down. Every detail. I open the photo album and pull out all the photos. Here is the lake, and there is the big oak tree, the tyre swing, and the grassy hill. I include all of them. Every single image. The dirt track someone once learnt to ride a bike on, the boardwalk where birdwatches and photographers would line up to see the birds migrating, and the flower garden where so many people fell in love with the sweet smell the garden boasted. I write notes on the back of each image, on each happy place.

I push myself up and away from the table, abandoning my plan of a tidy workspace. I walk into the kitchen, and I pour myself a cup of iced tea. ‘Parker!’ I call out through the house ‘I have an idea!’

‘Coming!’ he replies. My excitement builds up inside me, like a balloon about to pop. Except, I know it won’t pop. This is it, this is the answer, what we have been searching for.

Parker strides through the door, his hair flopping in front of his eyes. He careless pushes it back, eying the tea now in my hand, ‘Ooh Iced Tea! Can I have some?’

I grab out another cup and begin telling him my plan. I watch as his eyes open with excitement. He reaches for my hand as I tell him all about the photos and the newspaper article, how we are the environmentalists of our generation. He gazes at me just as I knew he would. I knew he would just as I excited as I am. I squeeze his hand and tell him all about the letter, about this being our chance to make a difference. I begin stumbling over my words out of excitement and know that this is how we could help. Me and Parker, we could make a difference and change minds. We could save not only the habitats, but also our happy place.

I let go of his hand and rush to the table where my notebook and pencil still lie. I pick them up and hand them to him. I reach for the photographs and show him the trees, the lake, the hill. Then that one photo falls out, my happy place. That little field in between the lake and the playground. I used to sit there for hours, reading, people watching, closing my eyes, and breathing in deep breaths of fresh air. Pop! My indestructible excitement bubble pops, and I am left with nothing but sadness and the fragments of my anticipation. I remember the apartment buildings that were constructed in the field. I remember that it is too late to save it.

Parker looks at me, ‘Hey’ he says gently ‘It’s okay. This is a great plan.’ he adds with a soft smile. I look back down at the picture and place it on the table. ‘These are worth saving’ he says gesturing to the other photos still in my hand. ‘What if this letter is all it takes to save them?’

‘And what if it doesn’t work? What if we went to all this effort for nothing? What if nobody cares?’

‘But what if they do?’

‘Even if they did, there is no guarantee anything would be done. There is so much uncertainty. We could only make a small dent in an enormous amount of issues’.

He moves in closer and brushes the back of his hand across my cheek, pushing back my hair and tucking it behind my ear. He smiles and reaches for my hands. He holds them in his and rubs his thumb across the top of my hand in an attempt to comfort me.

‘You are right.’ he says, ‘There is no guarantee, and it is uncertain.’ he pauses ‘But you know, Rome wasn’t built in a day.’

I think of the news article. The Government is fiddling, while Rome burns.

‘Yeah, okay. You’re right’ I admit.

‘Good.’ He replies with a wink. ‘I always like that.’ I chuckle and roll my eyes.

‘I guess slow progress is still progress.’

‘Exactly. Now, let’s sort all of this out so we have somewhere to sit down and write the letter.’ We both turn to the invisible table and laugh at how out of hand it has gotten.

‘Okay’ I say, ‘Let’s.’ Parker kisses my cheek, and we begin clearing off the table. Together.