Wild Threads of Truth

We snuck out of our motel room just minutes after the “lights out” call and made our way a block down the street where two boys waited in a Jeep with the vinyl top rolled back. It was my senior year in high school and I was on a National Honor Society trip in Taos, New Mexico. My girlfriend and I hopped in the jeep and off we went, with the night air blowing into our faces and Journey’s Small Town Girl playing through the speakers. A few miles out of town, we parked on the side of the road and hiked up a trail in the dark. After hiking for about fifteen minutes, we climbed over some rocks and a white cloud of steam came into view. We quickly peeled off our clothes, tossed them in a pile, and eased into a 97° pool of pure bliss. A few hours later, we tapped on our motel room door (we weren’t entrusted with keys), and our classmate let us in, reminding us how much trouble we would be in if we got caught. The next morning at breakfast, still half-asleep I burst out laughing when I realized I was wearing my girlfriend’s shirt, and it was inside out. The educational trip was a reward for our honorable achievements in school, and we had spent weeks studying about the history and preparing for our stops along the Santa Fe Trail. As I look back, I’m not sure how we pulled off this secret escapade, especially without cell phones, but I do remember a few notes being passed back and forth at a lunch stop along the way.

There were other times. A few years earlier, I snuck out and met two neighbor friends. We walked about a mile and crossed the highway to a guest ranch where there was a pond with several canoes. We giggled and talked in high-pitched whispers as we slid a canoe into the water under the light of a full moon. The only thing we were missing was an oar. So we hung over the edge and paddled with our hands, steering the boat out to the middle of the pond and then back to shore.

My mom did her best to instill in me the importance of being responsible, using common sense, telling the truth, and doing the right thing. That said, I still had this deep longing not only to do something wild but to keep it hidden out of sight, in my own deep well of secrets. Through the years I’ve filled that well with all sorts of interesting and daring stories, some that occasionally float to the surface.

So what do these old stories of my past really mean? Nothing, they were just events that came and went. I am not proud of a lot of the things I did, but I’m not ashamed either. I have discovered that there is power in the telling. And through the telling, a new story unfolds. That girl who snuck out at night and told lies to cover her tracks? It’s just a story about a girl who wanted to be accepted and did what she thought she had to do. But now that the storms of adolescence and years of adulthood have passed, those moments of wild truth have turned into colorful threads that catch the light now and then, adding some depth, truth, and a little bit of sparkle to the story of me.