Willard, Washington is like the center of the earth. It is a living, breathing thing. A place anyone can call home. Everything on this earth seems to be living and breathing; even a deserted building or a rock on the bottom of the ocean floor. Willard is the most alive place to which I have ever been.

As one enters Washington, the rain begins to fall endlessly and the rivers run wild. Washington is like a cloud of rain covered by a hood of evergreen trees. Willard is truly a part of Washington.

My mother and I travel in one of her old cars to Willard, our moods bright and the music blaring. The tall trees blur past me out the window and the rain beats hard on the windshield. As we come closer, we begin to see the familiar sights that remind us that Willard is near. The long, lonely highways lined with trees that seem to lead farther and farther into the forest and the known way the sun cascades of the surrounding mountains after the rain has ceased. We drive forever, but it seems as if it only lasts a few short minutes. The towns grow smaller and smaller until we are just another unknown speck, traveling deeper into the depths of the earth.

We have reached Willard, the old logging community. I see the brown sign that reads “Willard, Pop. 42.” As we drive into the little neighborhood, I begin to feel a sense of place and, more importantly, a sense of happiness. I am happy of the way Willard has helped me shape into a better person. I have learned to appreciate the small and often inconspicuous wonders of nature. The slow way the grass grows and the cold and dreary way the rain falls. This is all we have in a place such as Willard; just me and the earth. In Willard, I get the amazing opportunity to listen to the slow, yet miraculous way the world keeps on turning. Willard is simply a place, yet so much more.

Willard is deeper than yet another ancient logging town. It holds memories far within its roots, engraved in the trees and beneath the grass. It is something that pulls the strings attached to feeling and emotion. It is living and breathing. Its heart beats in the middle of Willard in the very house that has been in my family for years; the Willard house, the heart of Willard.

My grandfather’s house is small with chipped tan paint and old brown windows. NASCAR blares on the television and papa sits in his chair, his eyes shifting from the screen to the Sunday paper. There are two blue chairs and an itchy tan couch placed haphazardly around the living room. I have spent many of my days in Willard on that itchy tan couch, looking out the window or reading a book. That’s the thing about Willard. Some days, I have great, grand adventures playing in the forest and getting into trouble, where other days I sit on that couch in that old living room all day and do nothing. And I am content. My worries have escaped me, thanks to my friend Willard.

I glance around and even as I sit at this drab desk in Corbett high school, I can still smell the scent of Willard; the smell of damp earth. Not pollution, salty French fries, or the faint odor of grease emanating from the closest Panda Express. I smell the grass and the old gravel road, the smell of burning wood and rain. I can still remember exactly what I was wearing the last time I was there and I can still hear NASCAR blaring in the background at the Willard house.

When I want to let go and take a few deep breathes, this is where I go. I go to stop existing and start living. To experience what life on earth really is. Everyone needs to pay the earth a visit, and when I do, I go to my favorite place in the world. I go to Willard.