Walking on a twisting path
Sun dappled leaves
Quiet foot falls against the loamy earth.
You cannot see where you are going,
Neither where you have been.
As I walk along the path of mine, shooting between trees and feeling the difference of the sun and the shade, I feel cool breezes caress my skin. The air feels cool with dampness, and the light is hesitantly shining through the trees.
Glancing up through the twisted branches, and walking along the twisted path, I feel as if the light itself is twisted. Twisted and spun as it falls down and lights a cheek, a shin, a shoulder.
Am I glimpsing heaven in the forest? Are the trees showing me what heaven is like, or keeping me from the full glory of the sun? If the trees were not here, or if I was not among the trees, I would be burnt by the sun’s rays. The trees soften the light here. They keep me from shielding my eyes to the brightness of midday.
The branches themselves are softened by the moss that grows on them. Epiphytes that live with the trees, sharing nutrients but not hurting them. Ferns and mosses that shine brightly with the green of recent rain.
Epiphanies of community hidden in the quiet traces of the old growth forest. Live oaks that have seen the land brutalized and razed, and seen the people among them war and fight over the last three hundred years. Living amidst the death, decay, and new life of the forest.
And yet they wait, silent Ent sentries that watch us as we struggle to find our way through the twisted paths.