An Old Man of the Woods

Of all the literary devices to invest feeling and gravity, I have always found nature to be the strongest. It is certainly among the most readily available. There remains an enduring majesty to the world in its oldest forms, a visceral realism to remove us from ourselves and awe the shared subconscious of man.

Think on the breathtaking vista from atop a great mountain formed across many thousands of years. The sear of lightning against a rain-whipped night sky. The crash and tumble of a choppy ocean viewed from the shore. Breaking through the eye of a storm, snatching relative peace from the heart of chaos.

These things can be used to call upon a great deal of weight and emotion at the cornerstones of ourselves, yet each carries a steep cost to witness. The view from the peak requires the mountain be climbed, standing upon the shore risks being carried to sea, and seeing the storm means braving it first. While these costs can enrich reward, there is something closer to home which captures the same daunting grace.

For your consideration, I humbly submit the forest. It rears up all around us, springing from our boots, undeniable and ever-present. Due to this familiarity, our mind ceases to wonder at it–though on more than one occasion I admit to gawping up at the trees.

To be in the forest on a proper day is a blessing, and a feast for the senses besides. The stir of green leaves en masse, the smells of earth and life, the fractal patterns of warm sunlight scattered through an ever-shifting canopy. With only a deep breath and a look around the might of our universe at work can be glimpsed, briefly understood, and shared through a quiet moment of interconnectedness.

As often as I can in my work, I make it so the woods are never far. Without them our world is made less vibrant and storied, and the same goes for mine. Look for the leaves, reader, and pause a moment to bear witness.

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