WINFIELD WORD WEAVING

The lone hiker picks his way over the wet, glistening trail, his footsteps crunching on the pebble-studded mud floor, capably choosing his course, meandering left, gently twisting right, avoiding bulging root and boot-grabbing rock, as if tip-toeing through unseen life-altering landmines, he suddenly reminds himself to look up.

To each side of the well-worn way live verdant leaf and glowing cover, dripping frond and shimmering bough, as if the trees were dressed for a night on the town in the finest fall-worthy cloak and attire; our wandering walker plods on and smiles.

Step by step through the lush wood grows his satisfaction, his appreciation, his realization that this trek, in all its beauty and splendor, is gaining altitude, an altitude that tests his resolve, tests his lung capacity, making him realize he is no longer an 18-year-old, he determines not to give up until he reaches the trails end.

Again, he focuses on his footfalls, lifting and stepping on the protruding serrated rocks, as if a soul, newly passed, ascends a nature-made staircase to celestial bliss; he comes to a small creek, cutting its way down hill through the earth, exposing rock and root, across the path, circumscribing a tree, its gentle trickle music to his ears, a masterpiece to his eyes.

The 360 degrees of melodious sounds and mystical sceneries that no coffee table book could ever capture cause a gushing appreciation, a deeply spiritual feeling that words can’t adequately describe, causing him to pause and breathe in, deciding then and there this will become a habit, a priority, a turning over of a proverbial new leaf for self-preservation.

He continues on, forgetting his effort, moving with new efficiency, almost as if floating through a dreamscape; he takes in the scenery, and though his concentration is on obstacles to trip him and beauty to enthrall him, he realizes with some amazement, his mind is a million miles away.

Daily problems, personal anxieties, quizzical challenges, yearnings, and desires stir in his head, a soup that defines his life, motivations that keep his heart pounding, his lungs filling, and he exhales and takes a seat on a log-like couch, the healing can now begin.

Like an attentive therapist, the wood listens to the jumble of his thoughts, not commenting, never judging, open to the diverging trajectories of scenarios his mind conjures, allowing him to work out his own solutions as though a parent helping a child to learn to ride a bike, their compulsion to catch their child before they fall, but instead allow them to find their own balance, their own victory.

Eyes closed in thought, the newest tenant of the peaceful wood relaxes and listens for answers to his questions, noting to himself the calm he feels, the lack of pressure, the unimportance of time suddenly coming to a personal epiphany, he raises to his feet and proclaims to no one, “YES!” without embarrassment or shame.

As the echo of his word fades, muffled through the bramble until he once again picks up the soft chirping of the ever-present and often hidden inhabitants of the wood, he continues on, up and around, through and over and up again, until at last he ascends to the pinnacle exclaiming, “My Woods.”

He, unapologetic, plants his flag at the peak, proclaiming dominion over the land and all of its biological denizens as though a victor in battle, a conqueror to be revered, but no, not to be feared.

No, not to be feared, but rather, he pledges, silently broadcasting to the hidden lodgers of the verdurous undergrowth, peace, and security, a promise to look after, not lord over, an affirmation to take care of the acreage of which he so fully has fallen in love, and a guarantee to leave this place as he has found it, so all that comes after, may enjoy it when they walk in his woods.

by David Winfield