I went to see a psychologist for the first time today in an attempt to clear the cobwebs leftover from my failed marriage.
I remembered one of my favorite games as a kid. There used to be large sheets of plywood scattered all over our backyard. I guess they were leftover building materials from my parents' house. I remember walking through the knee-high grass and spotting the plywood from a distance by the empty spots. Sometimes we'd jump from piece to piece imagining that we were in the ocean. Their weather-warped unsteadiness made it seem like they might actually be floating on water. But more often, we wouldn't step on them at all; we'd lift them up. The most exciting ones revealed the cross-sectioned tunnels of worms and snakes and mice. If we were lucky, a real mouse or snake would dart out and away near our feet. Even the most boring revealed large spiders and centipedes, tangled masses of earwigs, and june bug larvae. I remember the fear and excitement; I loved the unpredictability. But I remember always having mixed feelings about destroying the crusty shelter of all those nasty things.