He ran to the
forest. He ran as fast as he could on the
dirt
paths that went out to the
playing fields, over the small bridge, and out past
the stone
stadium. He needed to get away, and the forest was the only place where
he could be alone without being alone, in
nature without being stranded, and at peace
without being
bothered. He ran past the small shack that held the power converter and
followed the
path as it curved right and slowly gave way to gravel as it crossed the
small river.
Just a few strides more and he was in.
The forest. Well, it wasn’t actually a forest, but that’s
what he loved so much about it. It was a forest that gave as much of itself as one needed.
If one needed just the light stroll to air one’s legs, it gave clear paths and numerous
spots along the riverbank to pause and take in the air, the green, and the beauty.
If it was protection one sought, it offered from deep within itself dark, dense brush and
tall stern trees, from whose bases one could take in oneself and lose oneself, and be
utterly, totally, alone. It was into this bosom that he ran. As he ran further and further
in, the light changed. The ordinary sunshine which normally seemed so clear and mundane
grew more and more golden as he ran, the leaves and pine needles gathering in their
greenness and darkening with the light crisscross of a hundred thousand shadows cast
overhead. Further and further he ran until he had been completely enveloped within the
forest’s multi-layered grasp, camouflaging and secreting him away. Finally he stopped.
Chest heaving, he laid down onto the soft pine needle floor and gazed up at the sky. Dark
green pinwheel with bright blue center. As his breath slowly returned and his breathing
became shallower, he gradually became aware of a soft, cool wind that was invisibly sweeping
through the forest. Born a thousand miles to the north, the wind swept over hills and fields,
past farms and meadows, racing and tumbling over the land and now blew gently against the back
of his head. Higher up the wind slipped through the uppermost branches and created a faint
whistling –-not of any note, just the rushing of air–-, a clarinet played without a reed, a
seashell held to one’s ear. This was the sound he loved. It reminded him of the rush of a
highway heard from far away, except that this was purer, cleaner. The wind blew and revived
him.
After some time he got up and looked around. To his right grew what he had affectionately
come to call the jug tree, a giant solid tree whose trunk-size branches grew out from the
base and curved upward, containing within themselves a myriad of ivy and branches. To his
left grew a small sapling, not much higher than himself and ahead of him splayed out
diagonally on the forest floor lay the ancient remains of one of the taller trees. The log
no longer had any branches – he suspected that those were the first to go – and the whole
deep brown length was covered in white and orange and green splotches, evidence of nature’s
silent reclamation crew. It was this he loved – the life and the death, the destruction and
renewal, the odd and the straight that filled and balanced every inch of the forest. It was
this harmony that restored his soul.