Learner

I’ve always been a forever learner. Inasmuch, I’ve also been a forever observer and journalist. Tucked under my arm, was always a notebook– a pen bobbing along on a string tied to my waist bands. It was poetry through the wind that tugged on my soul to document the feelings of Nature. Taking in the seasons as they’d come, approaching the wild with reverence, kindness, and liturgy– It was always a waltz with the boughs of the great oaks, a dance of muses tied to the soul, confronting the essence of life with an offering too wonderful to decline. 

In childhood, folks would admire the self discipline to adhere to standards not yet written in conductual placement, yet here I was, minding the tune of the breeze as if it were guiding me step by step into the most fanciful future my soul could behold. The voice was ever so clear and powerful. Nothing could quiet it. Except for the distance that lingers at the end of each day. When the sun sinks low and the crickets chirp, signaling the closing of the moment; the bed calling you to deep slumber, away from the magic of Nature’s darkness. 

And growing up, with the drama that stings, the trees mumbled low and I’d forgotten their healing powers. And the distaste for that of Nature grows in the spirit, and adults who once looked up to you in your youth-filled freedom, now flooded the stage with expectations - life was a performance and I was drowning in the ache for applause. Yet into adulthood I spun, the ground below my feet caving in - the torment raging inside a mind who’s lost its first love - the woods. 

But to find yourself after a very hot day, mind toiling in anxiety and frustrations pounding the body to submission to the work of society - completely exhausting, gasping for air, willing to cross the fields of pain and treachery to relieve oneself in the creek of shallow, cool waters. Ah, the connection - rebuilt. The savior I’d needed wasn’t so distant. The complexities - so easy to manipulate and disregard. Such authority I’d given to the system, yet just a moment in solitude with nothing but the trickling of water to refresh the soul and birds flying by on their errands, is enough to remind that child within what life is really all about. 

And so the observations resurfaced. And the long, awaited study rekindled - to find myself awestruck by the men who began this work - who did not live very long, but lived very full. And that was all the difference. My heart skipped a beat in delight of the realization of life’s very basic work - to enjoy. And my soul repented and sought after that which healed, and the woods became my home once more. 

And now, as it is, I sit on a stoop overlooking a creek, water rushing over the sandy banks after days of rain. Moss on the rocks echo magic back into the world, blessing the sight with cool shades of green and silver. The wind tugs at my hair, sending shivers down my arms to the place where the ink meets the paper - as if guiding my hand across the page, writing its feelings down for the world to know. The magic of life is in the woods, where God meant man to be in reliance on his provision. And my soul is renewed once more.