THE OLD GROWTH FOREST


I often sat next to Father on an old tree stump surrounded by ancient trees listening to him tell fairy tales about trees—tales of trees with human faces, tales of trees that talked, and tales of trees that sometimes walked. The old growth forest surrounded us, alive with hidden secrets.  The trees rose upward forever, and the canopy above us was distant, like clouds of green.  With my arms out-stretched, I knew I’d never be able to reach even a fraction of the way around the trees’ gnarly bark trunks.    


I often return to the old growth forest; it is the place where I go for rest and for serenity that  
flows like cool river waters. The path snakes around the ancient trees; and I step carefully over the roots that knot the pathway, watching the freshly fallen rain seep into the soil, struck by a wish to melt in with it—not to die but to live forever amongst these ancient beings who cast the shadow in which I stand.


The old growth forest doesn’t care for seconds or minutes, even hours are inconsequential.  The smallest measure of time here is the cycle of daylight and darkness.  The
forest is more in tune with the seasons: rebirth brought by the warmth of spring; darkened foliage from summer’s warm kiss; tumbling leaves foretelling fall’s arrival; and then the keen bite of winter.


Here in the old growth forest so little can happen in the time it took me to change from a child into a woman. Perhaps that’s why I love being here—it stabilizes the rapidity of my thoughts and grounds me in a place where the ticking of clocks is disregarded.  There is a sacredness here that transcends my everyday concerns, casting them into the timelessness of the forest.  Under these boughs I feel the breath of the Universe and hear the beauty of Its creations.  


I’ve trodden along these forest paths so often that my soles are worn thin.  But I don’t tire of this old growth forest, for I’m always at home here.  


  

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