When I reminisce about my years growing up at Maidstone (a state park in northern Vermont) my mind fills with such ardent memories. I can hear the sound of water slapping on rocks, the chilling loon calls, and hot roaring fires. I can see myself running wild down the twisted paths through the woods, trekking cautiously down dirt roads in the dark of night, climbing moss-covered boulders with the help of the roots from the trees fixed on top, and skinny-dipping in the black water during the deep nightly silence. I can even smell the freshness of the forest and the smoky dew left on my clothes.
These memories are vivid. They go so deep. This place has a mythology for me–one that’s developed over the years through my uninhibited imagination, mystical interpretations, and dark pondering. When I reminisce it almost feels otherworldly. Did all of this even happen? It just feels so sweet–yet so incredibly saturated in the provocative side of nature.
These trips to Maidstone shaped me. I was able to be a free spirit in the forest, a naked water-nymph in the lake, and just a little girl, part of a mysterious story filled with faeries, bottomless ponds, Native American curses, magical springs, and sacred animals. The magic has never ended. It’s become part of life for me–different, surely–but these experiences did something to me. My mind is open to the other parts of nature–the unknown (or unbelievable), the dark mysteries, the beings, the spirits. Nature is magic, and Maidstone helped to teach me that.
Fae is putting on her gold leather sandals. We’re about to go for a ride in the storm.