Hiding is one of my favorite pastimes, a legacy from youth in the western suburbs of Chicago during the 1960s, where it was encouraged.

I hid from my two brothers, one older and one younger until such time they stopped trying to find me.

I hid from our parents, assured they would try to find me. They did, in empty appliance boxes where I set up housekeeping; in the way-back of our way-back closet, where Mom’s sometimes dresses, the fancy ones, reminded me I would go to a dance, sometime. If invited.

I hid from school friends in my bedroom. I had no phone in there so it was easy to have conversations with them. I was smart and funny. Much better than the real thing.

I hid from the future in our basement. We had a record player and a ping-pong table and a blackboard. I tried dance and sport and lecturing. As you might imagine, I excelled.

When our son entered the world, he kicked hiding up a notch. In blankets, closets, dog cages. Under rugs, behind and within furniture, covered by leaves, in trees, atop a bookshelf, in the hamper, amid clothing racks, next to tall people, under water. If something had an under, a behind or atop, he hid. I think it did him good.

Hiding is a great pastime when you need to figure things out and the world isn’t helping much. It reminds you somebody cares enough to look for you. AND, it gives you a place to leave, when you’re ready.