“Where are you, you ungrateful little asshole?!” Crouched behind the woodpile, I hear dad storm out of the house and slam the front door. Startled, I look up to see the splintered fingers of hemlocks surrounding me, wispy blue sky peeking through. I feel the course grain of dirt, twigs and needles on my hands and feet with the woodpile the only thing standing between me and his unpredictable, fiery rage.

Moments before, I had wrapped myself in nature’s small cocoon with my fort of creative fantasy. Now, as I feel the hard spikes of adrenalin rocketing through my limbs, fighting for every breath, I wonder – just what is it that I have done? I search my heart and mind while the woodpile silently stands witness, as fortress and refuge. I never found the source of his angst, and he never found me that day, either. Nonetheless, the woodpile still stands with me, taking many forms through the years.

It took the form of a cluttered, oak dining table. On one side my father sat with his open Bible, boasting yellow highlights interspersed with red underlines. “God has a calling for my life, and you’re going to be part of that,” he said. I feebly nodded from my chair on the opposite side. At 12 years old, I was too young to know what it felt like to be dead inside. Still, while I witnessed the world moving around me with vibrant colors, inside I felt gray and bleak. I consoled myself by thinking this was my devotion – to shut down and endure. Both safety and love became tethered to being agreeable and muted.

The woodpile took the form of a victorian hardwood church pew juxtaposing a man behind a pulpit – plumber by weekday, preacher on Sunday. Like a peacock, he led every church service in his suit and tie, his wife dutifully playing the piano in a plain skirt and faded cardigan. Oh, how I loved to request hymn number 432 every Sunday. Music and animals awoke the colors inside me. One Sunday evening, as we reflected on Genesis 1:26, I boldly shot my hand into the air. “My horse and I have a special bond. He comes to me, and I feed him carrots. I know he feels things!” The resulting laughter soaked through my body and settled in the woodpile around my heart. “No,” said preacher plumber man. “No, they don’t have souls and they don’t have emotions. Only humans do.”

A manager’s cubicle became a woodpile too. I spent my days encapsulated in that square, gray box that held my tears. 42933 – the number on my badge that granted me exclusive access to the server closet, air-conditioned and humming with the blinking lights of hard drives and storage area networks. To this electronic sanctuary, I slipped away, hot tears spilling silent and dark, one woman in a field of men.

The woodpile became a staircase – one that separated me from the man who, for 17 years, I called husband and best friend. I checked all the boxes that were supposed to make me happy, but the colors still eluded me. After 16 celibate months, all that remained was me, asleep upstairs in our bed while he walled me out downstairs on the couch. There was no more try left inside. I didn’t want to be married anymore.

Today, I sit alone by the fire and write, dozing cat purring beside me. The second love of my life gone now, too. I reflect on all the years and how that woodpile formed my way of being. I begin to wake from my own slumber, that inner death that once defined my safety has truly become the barrier to my fulfillment. A woodpile can serve to light a fire, but in my case, it served to protect me for many years. Or so I thought. In the end, that woodpile kept life out and me in. The time is long overdue to light a fire to that pile and pull my heart from the ashes.