When I was seven or eight, one afternoon I wandered off by myself into the woods around our house. I remember sitting next to a creek, my arms outstretched as insects swirled over the water, listening to the flow, watching the light, feeling entranced by it all. I rambled, stopping to inspect rocks that caught my eye, gather sticks, and pick flowers. I was completely in the moment. The thought of going home never entered my mind in the over three hours spent out there. I was exactly where I needed to be and wholly content in the only environment I have ever felt truly at home.
Forty-some years later, that’s still my idea of a perfect three hours.
I’m rarely alone on outings these days, but recently I went out and wandered like that again and followed the invisible winding path. No trail, no plan, no end point. I saw magical portals, windswept deer beds, plump mushrooms, and magnificent milkweed. I examined the remains of a dead bird, then gently laid it on a bed of soft grass for its final journey back into the earth. A heron stood still in the water, allowing me to come closer and closer. Leaves and sticks crackled and snapped as creatures scurried through the brush. Trees whispered a seasonal song. The wind tousled my hair.