by request, the forest and solace
For motemeal. And, as it happens, for mugoi_usagi too. Two birds, one stone. Nice.
Autumn skips the South. They follow the same calendar year, but the phenomenon of fall foliage and crisp "I can see my breath" weather seems to pass it by with barely a nod. When I moved from the Northeast to Florida as a teenager, my mother would collect these brilliantly colored leaves in the woods behind our house and in the forested state park nearby. She gathered the best and most beautiful leaves she could find, sealed them in a zip-loc bag, and sent them down to me. I treasured those leaves, breathing in that distinctive aroma of slow floral decomposition that smells remarkably good despite itself. To me, they were magical. One whiff puts me right there in brightly technicolored surround sound.
It is beautiful in here.
I look up and see things as I imagine they might have been before we got so arrogant with our Homo sapiens selves and started running around acting like we owned the place. I see trees ...everywhere. Mostly it is still, but I hear sporadic scamperings around me, usually keeping their distance. Occasionally a breeze will rustle the 23 shades of yellow and 47 different reds that still cling tenuously to their branches. Their time is short and they know it. I can hear them whispering amongst themselves, wondering how long they'll last until they become part of the floor that grows more crowded the longer I sit here. I wonder for a moment if being the last leaf on a tree is like winning a hard-fought competition, or if it's more like being picked last for dodgeball. Maybe it's both.
The forest floor is soft but scratchy, a spongy cushion of pine needles and deciduous detritus that is pleasantly crunchy and comfortable, barring the occasional rough patch, sharp needle, or acorn under my bare hands. When I am still enough, and when there are no feet or rustled whispers, I can hear water running somewhere far off, but it is so faint I can't even tell the direction. I like knowing it's there, though.
The air is crisp in a way that always reminds me of ripe juicy apples and misty breath and cold cheeks and pink noses that sniff so they don't run. I would probably start to feel cold if I weren't so happy to just BE here, alone with the trees and the the chill and the scampers and rustles, immersed in a world that simply exists and doesn't care one way or another whether I can't cook or pay sustained attention or be on time with my bills or my appointments.
Often, this is my space to get away - from papers and pressures and patients and parents and payments and partners and people in general. I come here to get away from the world and who I'm supposed to be in it, my world as constructed by others and obligations and not the blue and green ball our minds imagine when we hear the word.
Sometimes I come here in my mind when I (try to) meditate; sometimes I come here when I do Reiki - I carve out some mental space and let these things settle into their familiar places. Sometimes I come here in real life and just sit. No cup of coffee, no computer screen, no ringing cell phone, nobody else. It's one of the most peaceful experiences I know how to have. There is nothing but the trees and the leaves and the air and the living breathing wondrousness of things, and for that moment I exist in synchrony with the world, [I am we are it is] perfect just the way it is, even when it's not.
Autumn skips the South. They follow the same calendar year, but the phenomenon of fall foliage and crisp "I can see my breath" weather seems to pass it by with barely a nod. When I moved from the Northeast to Florida as a teenager, my mother would collect these brilliantly colored leaves in the woods behind our house and in the forested state park nearby. She gathered the best and most beautiful leaves she could find, sealed them in a zip-loc bag, and sent them down to me. I treasured those leaves, breathing in that distinctive aroma of slow floral decomposition that smells remarkably good despite itself. To me, they were magical. One whiff puts me right there in brightly technicolored surround sound.
It is beautiful in here.
I look up and see things as I imagine they might have been before we got so arrogant with our Homo sapiens selves and started running around acting like we owned the place. I see trees ...everywhere. Mostly it is still, but I hear sporadic scamperings around me, usually keeping their distance. Occasionally a breeze will rustle the 23 shades of yellow and 47 different reds that still cling tenuously to their branches. Their time is short and they know it. I can hear them whispering amongst themselves, wondering how long they'll last until they become part of the floor that grows more crowded the longer I sit here. I wonder for a moment if being the last leaf on a tree is like winning a hard-fought competition, or if it's more like being picked last for dodgeball. Maybe it's both.
The forest floor is soft but scratchy, a spongy cushion of pine needles and deciduous detritus that is pleasantly crunchy and comfortable, barring the occasional rough patch, sharp needle, or acorn under my bare hands. When I am still enough, and when there are no feet or rustled whispers, I can hear water running somewhere far off, but it is so faint I can't even tell the direction. I like knowing it's there, though.
The air is crisp in a way that always reminds me of ripe juicy apples and misty breath and cold cheeks and pink noses that sniff so they don't run. I would probably start to feel cold if I weren't so happy to just BE here, alone with the trees and the the chill and the scampers and rustles, immersed in a world that simply exists and doesn't care one way or another whether I can't cook or pay sustained attention or be on time with my bills or my appointments.
Often, this is my space to get away - from papers and pressures and patients and parents and payments and partners and people in general. I come here to get away from the world and who I'm supposed to be in it, my world as constructed by others and obligations and not the blue and green ball our minds imagine when we hear the word.
Sometimes I come here in my mind when I (try to) meditate; sometimes I come here when I do Reiki - I carve out some mental space and let these things settle into their familiar places. Sometimes I come here in real life and just sit. No cup of coffee, no computer screen, no ringing cell phone, nobody else. It's one of the most peaceful experiences I know how to have. There is nothing but the trees and the leaves and the air and the living breathing wondrousness of things, and for that moment I exist in synchrony with the world, [I am we are it is] perfect just the way it is, even when it's not.