During a guided meditation I imagined one of my safe places, a stream at a bend in the road between the Meadows neighborhood and Altadena proper in California where I grew up from birth to second grade. I still go there from time to time when I am visiting the area as it is a very peaceful and pleasant place, forested with old oak trees arching out among the sycamore and spruce.
I imagined sitting on a rock looking up to the sunlight through the leaves and branches of the trees. White and spotted rocks line the steam bed, lush green vines and crimson poison ivy carpet the hillsides. I hear the leaves rustle in the breeze I feel on my face and hair. I also hear the trickling stream, the birds darting about, and the occasional car going by. The plaintive cry of a hawk, my spirit animal, calls out from a tree top nearby. I whistle back and he returns the call.