I walked in the woods today. The leaves were crumpling below my boots, dead from the change in seasons and recent frost. There were white mushrooms crawling up the trunk of a tree. They were in three rows, perfectly aligned, matching one another's shape and size. I am sure there is a scientific explanation for what they are doing there, but I would like to think that they are feeding the tree to prepare it for the coming winter. However, I doubt that has any truth to it.
As I walked, I came upon a rock. Moss covered one side of it. For some reason two thoughts entered my mind: The rock looks cold, and in its stoic way, would be a good listener. So, I sat with it, on it actually, covering it with a sweater that I pulled from my backpack. And then I did something I often do while in the woods alone, I spoke to the rock, just as I have to the trees, clouds, squirrels, and deer. I told the rock of my pain, of my grief, and my dreams. I spoke to it about how I missed my mother and how I fear that I will forget her voice and what her hands look like. I whispered to it about my depression and how the darkness has visited me lately and seems to have captured my mind, relentless and not letting go. Depression can be a cruel adversary. The rock did exactly what one should do when hearing such sadness. It did not search for long, rambling responses, or suggestions and fixes, but just sat and listened without judgment.
I further walked the path and came to a downed tree. My favorite one in all of the woods. It has a perfect place for me to lay my pack and then lean up against a smaller tree that still stands, and seemingly has been placed in a spot that supports my back when leaning against it. I rested my legs after climbing several hills, sipping cool water, eating dried figs, and reading Seneca while being serenaded by a Black-capped Chickadee.
The woods speak to me. It tells me its secrets, like where the deer cross the manmade path because I see them often. They stop and stare at me, not frightened, as if I am welcomed in their woods among them. There is one who finally grew out of their white spots, a doe that I have seen grow up this past year. When it was a fawn, it awkwardly ran down the path directly towards me, stopping, long skinny legs splayed outward as if trying to balance itself. We stood within ten feet of one another. I smiled and then its mother called just loud enough for the fawn’s ears to turn backwards. It gave me one more glance before running back into the woods for safety. Its mother was teaching it well, for the fawn should not get comfortable with me, a man. It should use caution because men destroy much in its path.
As I placed my book mark on the last page of the chapter that I just finished, a woodpecker had made its presence known. I sat listening to the rhythm of its beak against wood. The echo traveled throughout the woods, perhaps a warning to the other trees that they too would soon be visited. Though, the trees do not seem overly worried. They will be standing long after the woodpecker has gone, and long after my life has left my body. They will continue as they should, standing guard over the woods, keeping watch, offering shelter and shade. The trees will survive, even if they fall and go back into the soil, they will offer life and new growth. As I sat thinking about this, I realize that I too will one day return to the soil. I will go back to the earth’s womb and my soul will be reunited with my mother, my sister, and father. It will be reunited with friends, my father-in-law, and my animal friends that once kept me company and walked these very trails alongside me. I will not rush that day but I will welcome it when it comes.
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