A Happy Place
What comes to mind when you hear those words?
What do you think of as your ‘happy place’? A place you can retreat to in your mind’s eye, or even in the real world? A place to relax in when life gets stressful. I have more than one. I may be a little bit greedy.
When I was a child I thought the epitome of comfort would be a Hobbit hole. Yes, I, the avid reader of Tolkien's work as a youngster, very much wanted to live in Hobbiton. To me, the Shire seemed the perfect place. Green meadows, vibrant forests, babbling creeks, and lush gardens of herbs and vegetables.
And a home, underground and enclosed, all polished wood and river stones. I imagined a study, a library filled to bursting. Shelves full of every book, every sort of treatise I could think of. Cookbooks, storybooks, classical literature that I’d never gotten to read, and all of the books on plants and herbs and witchcraft that an enterprising young girl could find. Everyone needs a hobby.
I included a comfortable nest or a nook built into the wall, lined with cushions to make the perfect place for reading. It would be stuffed with soft blankets, dozens of pillows, so many as to make it hard for me to fit in it. I would be buried in them, drowning in coziness. I would be surrounded by the crackle of a fireplace at all times.
I gave myself as large a pantry as I could ever wish for, naturally. How could it be my happy place without a fully stocked kitchen? Add a large framed window to look out over the town from my dining table, and I was in my own tiny version of heaven.
Now, as I said I have more than one happy place to visit. And honestly, I’m sure most of us do- one single place can’t account for all the moods and daily troubles we have. Where shall I go next?
The tea house, I think. My own personal café. A small common room of dim lights, stained wood, and old upholstered benches. My favorite local coffee shop with the wall of windows looking across a battered old street. My most beloved window nook to lounge in when the autumn chill rolls down the road, the sky turns grey and the snow dusts the pavement.
That’s a real place, though I visit it in my mind more often than I take over a bench in person. I used to spend every morning there before my classes, my breakfast quiche cooling on a plate, tea steaming in the cold morning air.
My usual table was right beside the door, so there was no escaping the cold. Every time someone walked in or out I’d be swept up in the brisk, fresh air that flows over the river. Wrapped in my coat to ward off the chill as I sat with a novel propped on the edge of the table.
Even at high noon, the busiest time of the day, the little room stays quiet. The chatter is constant, but nobody yells. It stays soft enough to be in the background for me. That’s something I cherish, it’s often impossible for me to shut that noise out. But I enjoy the gentle murmur of voices, the clatter of knives and forks.
Where else…ah, yes. My stone garden. I remember when I stumbled upon the inspiration for it, the little terrace at a local park. A tiny space full of stone benches, stone planters, stone sculptures. Festooned with flowers of every sort and color.
In my mind’s eye, it’s larger than life. I picture it as a labyrinth, a place only I can find, with towering arches and fast-running streams. I imagine it covered with climbing vines, winding about the ancient rocks and barely leaving space for me to walk about. A living carpet.
I can see a great fountain as a centerpiece, deep enough for wading. Deep enough to swim. The spray from it keeping the air cool, even in the worst of the summer heat. I’m always finding new things in the labyrinth, new tiers, and alleyways to explore. Every new detail, a fresh discovery…you can’t get bored of a place if you can change it on a whim.
I can build any sort of place I want, come to think of it. I could build a town along a canal, the old sort of cobblestone roads, and medieval-style tile roofs. Great heavy pine forests in the distance, and snow-covered mountain tops high overhead.
I could be in a castle on top of that mountain, looking out over a distant stormy sea. I could leave one wall open, with roaring braziers for warmth and torches flickering in the frosty winter air. I could carve a hole in the floor, a sunken bowl with a warm mattress to be my bed. Anything I wanted.
The mind, the imagination, is a wonderful tool. We often forget about it in the hustle and bustle of our busy days, don’t we? Something so cherished and loved as children that we lose, throw away like an old toy as we grow older.
Did you know, some people in the world can’t do that? They can’t form pictures in their minds. Can’t hear sounds from memory. It’s normal for them, but I can’t think what my life would be like if I didn’t have it. I’ve never gone without.
If you stop and think about your happy place, what do you see? Do you have an ideal home, the perfect house? A sprawling garden of flowers and buzzing bees? A glorious palace like something out of a fairy tale? A secret lair of mischief and all the fun kinds of troublemaking?
If you do, do me a favor; write about it. Tell me all about it. Invite me, and everyone who reads it, to visit you there. And spend a little more time there yourself…I think we should do that more often.
If you enjoyed this story, please consider reading more stories in The Community Building Movement. We’re a small publication right now, but as the name suggests we’re doing our best to reach out and build a network of connections between writers and readers on Medium.
If you’re looking for somewhere to start, this story by Gerald Sturgill is a great option, as he’s begun a series talking about what he’s grateful about every day:
