Stirring Point

When was the last time you watched the celestial brilliance of a starry night? Or the last time you witnessed clouds peeling apart like curtains in a theater? Have you sat and watched the moon recently? Or have you taken a walk through the woods?

I’m home for the holidays in Northeast Pennsylvania, and like every visit, I’m pulled to the forest like a bee drawn to nectar. Each step in the woods is an audible sensation. A thin layer of snow coats the frozen ground and crunches beneath my feet. Pine trees stand dressed in their clinging needles, while beech trees rest barren in December’s biting air. The woods feel stoic and serious, and their muted grays suggest a pensive mood. They nudge me toward reflection, offering hushed moments to take stock of my life. My mind rejects the offer and remains present. Today is beautiful; this land is serene; there’s no need to cast my thoughts elsewhere. I’m happy right here with each simple step.

Creeping lichen covers fallen trees, while artist conk and turkey-tail fungi cling to weathered stumps. Pockets of pine trees crowd each other in densely packed groves. This forest, even in the bare days of winter, is thick and overgrown. Pine martens, deer, chipmunks, squirrels, and black bears all thrive here. They scour, rummage, munch and pluck the forest for sustenance, and as always, the forest provides. But at one time, our birdlife struggled. The beech trees were crowded and smothered their habitat. Then the Nature Conservancy arrived, thinned a swath of designated land and gave our forest some breathing room. Now, summer nights are filled with wistful birdsong, and those brightly colored beauties weave through the canopy once again.

These woods were the backdrop of my youth. As I wander through their folds, familiar trails tug me from the present and toss me into waves of nostalgia. Hidden paths filled with sphagnum moss and rhododendrons were the gateway to my freedom. Under the canopy, we were people, not children, and our experiments led to countless self-discoveries. My first kiss, my first fight, my first cigarette and my first beer. We fought wars with slingshots and battled with makeshift swords. Alliances were forged, backstabbing occurred, passions shifted and hormones ranged. Our emotions were raw, reactionary, and visceral. Self-control was an attempted practice, but never a promise. The forest was our laboratory to test theories and create worlds. It became a petri dish for trial and error.

When I return to this place, I feel no division between life and nature. This land has absorbed my blood from my countless skinned knees, split lips, and busted noses. Decades of spit litter the forest floor from lung-bursting trail runs. The earth holds the tears that dropped from my cheeks after breakups, deaths, and disappointments. I’ve sought the comfort of privacy below the towering pines here, and I’ve sprinted in fear through pitch-black nights, running from the lurking eyes of some imagined creature.

And now, as a man in my 40s, I see more dead trees than I remember from my childhood. I notice more decay than I did at this time last year. The ice storm of 2005 ravaged this forest, but it feels like something more. It feels like I’m changing. My eyes are adjusting to entropy. The graying whiskers on my chin remind me of this each morning, and maybe, like this forest, my conditions must change. Maybe I too will fall under the weight of entropy. I know this, of course, but like many of us, I never really believed it. Now, the process seems impossible to ignore. There’s more of it around me, and I’m part of it too.

I mention the trees to my father and share my surprise at the number of them in decline. He casually reminds me that “trees don’t grow to the sky.” It’s a fact that he came to realize many years ago.

Whatever this forest brings me, I must be grateful. One walk through its gullies reminds me to stop and watch the moon, to pay attention to the clouds, and to marvel at the stars. I am part of this forest and it’s part of me. Nature is not beyond the walls of my home. It’s a part of who I am.