The other day I was thinking about my childhood. (The older I get the more I enjoy this.) I was a hider.  I liked to be by myself, thinking my own private thoughts and dreaming my own private dreams. Inside my head I was not hampered by the outward reality of a gawky too-tall girl who thought she was smarter than most of the other kids but not smart enough to keep this to herself.

I had many hiding places. One of my favorites was a large grey rock that was hidden from the house and prying adult eyes by the blackberry vines in the back yard. I made a tunnel through the vines, a secret thorny tunnel impassable by adults, which led to the back of the rock.  The rock stood higher than my head and the back was wide and smooth and more massive than my father. It had a large shelf halfway up just long and wide enough for me to lie full length upon. Here I was completely hidden by blackberry vines, surrounded by thrumming bees, protected by thorns.
 
I pressed my stomach down on the cool surface, and flung my arms above my head. I spread my fingers and pushed my hands down, flat and hard, to feel the tickling of tiny grit on my palms. I pushed my nose down, I squashed it flat, and sniffed deep of that dusty, rocky smell. The blackberry vines gently brushed the backs of my bare sunburnt legs. 

I was hidden, safe. I was silent. I laid my ear against the face of the rock shelf, sealing out all outside noise. I listened to the rock's voice. It sang like the hollow boom of a large drum beat very softly. It hissed and burbled as it breathed. I was soothed to find a rhythm so like mine.