Entrance Into Wood

Entrance Into Wood

With scarce my reason, with my fingers,
with slow waters slow flooded,
I fall to the realm of forget-me-nots,
to a mourning air that clings,
to a forgotten room in ruins,
to a cluster of bitter clover.

I fall into shadow,
the mist of things broken down,
I look at spiders, and graze on forests of secret inconclusive wood,
I pass among damp uprooted fibers to the live heart of matter and silence...

Here am I faced with your color of the world,
with your pale dead swords, with your gathered hearts, with your silent horde.

Here am I with your wave of dying fragrances wrapped in autumn and resistance:
it is I embarking on a funeral journey among your yellow scars...

~ Pablo Neruda


*sigh*

I miss the woods. The smell. The silence. The freedom. There’s something about being out there absorbing everything the forest has to give.

I grew up running the fields and streams not far from my front door; bringing home the critters of the marsh and tree line, only to let them go a few days later. And my vacations as a kid were not spent going to Disney Land or to some exotic beach house on the coast. I spent most at my grandfather’s farm, running the old tobacco fields and playing in the chicken coop; and later when my parents bought land, roaming the woods of Crawford County, Wisconsin.

I used to think I was deprived of so much growing up. I now know this is far from the truth. In fact, I see it now that I had one of the most fulfilled childhoods a kid could have. Climbing trees, running deer trails, collecting turkey feathers, and catching fireflies. So colorful, so full of life. I learned how to sit, quietly, patiently, waiting for the woods to come alive, waking as the sun rose over the hillside. I saw things that others only see on the nature channel. I learned to listen and identify which bird calls were which and how to differentiate the sound of a squirrel rustling in the leaves to the steps of a whitetail walking down the trail. Many of these things I learned from my mother and father. Some I learned from my grandfather and uncles. But most of these things I learned just by sitting alone and being a part of the woods itself.

Later, in my twenties, I lived just a short drive from my family’s cabin in Crawford. I would find myself skipping many Friday classes only to leave Thursday night for the land. I’d spend my three day weekends there, just sitting with a cup of coffee and a good book, feeling the breeze as it swept through the valley. At night I’d spread a blanket out and gaze up at the masterpiece of stars, untouched by any city lights dimming their beauty. I’d count satellites as they passed by and catch a few falling stars when I could.

Now, years later and far from home, I find myself yearning for my Crawford County. Wishing upon those falling stars that I could be back home, roaming the woods I used to as a kid. Its spring, one of the best times to be out under the large canopy of oaks and popples. The May apples are blooming, the morels are pushing up from the undergrowth, and the toms are gobbling in the early morning mist. I sit here in my office at home and I can still smell the life and green in the air.

I miss the woods. I miss the simplicity of it all. I know I chose the life I’m living. Away from home. Away from my Crawford County. And I know I’ll get back there one day, maybe for good; to roam the trails I once did as a kid, free and full of life. But until then I’ll dream of whitetail fawns in the hilltop fields and starry nights filled with the sounds of crickets and tree frogs.
~ Carrie