The clearest memories I have are perhaps the most unspectacular moments of my life, and though I didn't realize it at the time, it was these few points of my existence that shaped me into what I am today. I think that this holds true for most people, though often times some will have you believe they lived a life of intense struggle or magnificent wonder. These are the people who never learned, the kind of people who could never take personal growth into their own hands. They are ugly.

As a young child I had no magical forest, no enchanted closets, no cobwebbed attics; just a small backyard on a small plot of land in a small town. I even remember thinking to myself in those former years what it would be like to have some fantastic grove of cherry trees that would lead me to some fountain of youth or another, as the protagonists in my books always did. Oh how I would have loved to delve into the world of magic and jest, surprise and folly, but alas, it was not meant to be, and it wasn't until many suns later, after that romanticized ideal had swam away, that I began to wonder where these stories came from.

Surely these ideas hadn't been born into creation like Athena from Zeus as that would have been ludicrous, and I never really did believe in those silly Greek tales anyway. There must have been some provocation, some prodding poking beast of a memory that seized their neurons and forced them to write a story of absolute wonder. My thoughts ran wild for months on this one. I simply couldn't grasp the concept. Where did these legendary tales come from? Why did these novels always feel so attainable, like they were waiting to be fulfilled somewhere just beyond our garden fence?

And then one day the answer smacked me across the lips, as a sort of penance for my daring to have even asked the question at all. There I was, my spine nearly cracked in half from the strain of uprooting pigweed sprouts (it's dastardly work I tell you), when a herd of rabbits popped out of their warren like a cork from a bottle of champagne. I nearly soiled myself right then and there from the sheer shock of seeing those furry little abominations squat in my beet garden like they owned the whole damned yard. They stared at me for a moment, (probably wondering what I was doing in their beet garden) then they were off in a flash and gone beyond the fence.

I was stupefied! Never before had I allowed a rabbit to take home in my garden, much less a litter of them. I was nearly about to give up and surrender that tiresome plot of ruddy beets to any amount of pigweed, rabbits, or any other dirt sucking vermin that cared for a nibble, but just as soon as I thought that, it occurred to me that once again I was stumped by something that should have been so obvious. With malice aforethought and pronounced protest from my aching joints, I made my way over to that dumpy little hole and saw something absolutely terrific. Those clever little monsters had concealed their borrow directly behind one of the larger beet sprouts, covering the whole area in bits of mulch and dead leaves, just as I had done myself during planting season. That tiny little tunnel was the entryway to a whole breeding ground of varmints and other critters surely, but a second's glance would have made no difference to me beforehand and I would have missed the tufts of rabbit fur stuck to pieces of wood and the misshapen leaves from bunny teeth.

It was at this moment in my life that I realized the two things that would shape me into what I am today. Firstly, these minute and tedious instants in our lives are the foundation on which we build an entire lifetime of memories that we can either see at face value, or look beyond and create something truly worthwhile. Secondly, and more importantly, always double check for rabbits.