Of all habits I had, running was possibly the most important. It wasn’t that I enjoyed running or that I felt I’d benefit from the exercise. It was just the simplest way to escape.When black thoughts slipped it, when gray feelings seeped into my bones, they stirred my feet to action. I ran to shed the darkness.

I’d never run with a destination in mind. I’d never even run with the intention of getting back to where I was running from. It was only ever to get away, to suffocate in my burning lungs instead of my worries, to see a shift in the sky rather than a change in my life. Destination wasn’t the escape; running was.

The day my escape changed was the day I found the garden. Tucked behind a museum, the garden looked like a home for fairies. Vines coated beige walls like peeling paint in reverse. Trees and bushes extended toward the sky, pink flowers resting on top like a crown. A leaf-encircled trellis rested against the farthest wall, a bench inviting me in. Serenity radiated from the garden. As I stared, my heartbeat slowed from the run. I wondered if perhaps I had found a destination.

I wondered if I’d found a place I could be still.

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Hello, friends!

Here’s me blogging more often. I do go back to school this weekend so we’ll see if I can keep it up. Feel free to make bets.

Anyway, here’s a picture I took of a lovely study spot at my school. Lovely, isn’t it? What story does the garden tell you? Is it charmingly peaceful or maliciously mysterious? Leave a response to the prompt in the comments!

That’s all for now. Thanks for reading!

“If a nation loses its storytellers, it loses its childhood.”
—Peter Handke