The Happy Place

During my last therapy session, my therapist recommended that I come up with a happy place, and had me describe it to them in detail. I know it’s a pretty common exercise, but I though it might be helpful for me to write it out here. Not just so that it solidifies in my own mind, but also as a fun writing exercise and as a prompt for other people when they’re trying to find their happy place.

On a hillside overlooking a dark forest rests a field of brilliant lavender, its floral scent carried by a soft wind. The sky is overcast, with a storm on the horizon just beyond the forest, but the sun still radiates warmth into the field. As the storm heads towards the hill, rain begins to pierce the forest’s edge, kicking up an imperceptible layer of dust and weaving petrichor into the lavender’s fragrant bouquet. The sound of thunder and the crackle of lightning play in the distance, startling the animals in the fields as they scatter to find cover from the coming torrent. Laying in the field, awash in the aroma of the coming storm, I can feel the grit of the dirt where my body meets the earth, and the itch of the grass as it bristles against me.

Between the field and the forest is a small, one room building. It’s a simple shack, with no windows or chimney; just four stonework walls, a tin roof, and a single heavy wooden door. The door makes up for the simplicity of the building without effort. Made up of four large planks, bound in iron with a thick metal ring for a handle, the wood is covered in twisting designs, each burned into the lumber: half-circles with no partners, frayed waves on a shore-less sea of oak, extinguished stars in a brown sky. Inside of this building stands a single barrel, it too bound in rings of iron. The Cask has been emptied of whiskey, but the smokey-sweet smell lingers in the barrel when you pry the top off. The barrel is mostly empty, save for the idea of a small tear-stained jacket tucked away at the bottom, and a tiny snarl of conversation, wrapped in twine and thrown aside as it tries to chew on anything nearby. The lid goes back onto The Cask with ease, sealing away its contents for later examination.

The massive iron-bound door closes as well, and the Field and the Forest are back in view. The storm has reached the hill, and the rain falls in sheets, its staccato music playing on the tin roof of the shack, occasionally punctuated by a peal of thunder or a bright crack of lightning. The rain falls hard, but it is warm, an intoxicating sensation that begs you to get lost in its welcoming embrace.

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William Moton
Serenity Tomala
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Elliot Chapple



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Dani Kirkham

Dani Kirkham

A writer and storytelling writing about: Mental Health, Video Games, Tabletop Games, Short Stories, all written as blog posts or articles