The Forest Was Never Quiet
I have very fond memories of being in the mountains and forests. I have been to forests where redwoods stretched more than 300 feet into the sky, and even the stumps left behind were enormous, some with tunnels wide enough for a car to pass through.
I have seen bears, deer, elk, moose, bison, and even pods of whales while driving close enough to the coast. I have stumbled across strange little shrines in the woods that looked like something out of a horror movie, probably built by some local just to scare tourists. I have stayed in places where elk wandered so close to the hotel that I could have opened the window and touched them if I wanted to.
I have seen some of the most beautiful lakes in the world, with water so cold that my lips would turn blue before my body finally adjusted. I remember climbing cliffs just to jump back into that freezing water, or hiking until I found old, abandoned houses that looked like they had been standing there for more than a hundred years.
A campfire was always a must. I would do my best to roast a marshmallow without burning it, only to remember that I actually liked watching them catch fire, so I would burn the hell out of them anyway.
I found snakes, frogs, toads, crawdads, turtles, and just about every kind of bug imaginable. One huge, colorful beetle scared the daylights out of me because it blended perfectly into my yellow, green, and red shorts that looked like something straight out of the 80s. I was told it was some kind of June bug.
Of all the different ways I could have gotten hurt, somehow I never really did. I was pretty tough back then. I seemed to bend, fall, climb, run, and crash into the world without ever breaking.
A lot of people talk about going into the forest to relax, find themselves, breathe fresh air, clear their minds, or meditate. But that was never what the forest meant to me.
The forest was loud.
It was exciting.
It was alive.
There was mystery behind every tree and something worth seeing in every direction. It was a place to run, play, climb, explore, look for animals, stare at the stars, and tell ghost stories beneath the moon while a fire roared beside you. It was a place to eat the worst food imaginable and somehow still lose weight because you never stopped moving.
Fishing could be relaxing, but even then, if you spent too much time trying to relax, you might miss everything happening around you. The sound of the water. Birds calling through the trees. Turtles slipping from the logs and rocks where they had been sunbathing. Something was always happening if you were curious enough to notice it.
These are the memories I have from being a kid, and I don’t think what I need now is to find some new way to relax or meditate.
I think I need to find a way to be a kid again.
To be curious again.
To wake up without needing a plan. To wander simply because something in the distance looks interesting. To look under every rock just because there might be something there. To follow a trail without caring where it ends.
The forest was never where I went to rest. By the time I came home, every muscle in my body would be sore, my clothes would be dirty, and I would be completely exhausted. But there was something beautiful about that exhaustion. It felt like accomplishment in a way I still struggle to describe. A kind of bliss that came from knowing I had used every bit of the day.
It is a feeling I wish I could share, and one I especially wish I could share with you.
We didn’t know each other when we were children, though sometimes I wish we had. Maybe that is why I imagine taking you back into those places with me, not just to revisit my memories, but to rediscover them together. I want to see your face light up at all the strange, beautiful, ridiculous things there are to find.
No judgment. No outside world asking anything from us. No schedule telling us where we have to be.
Just a place where we can choose any direction we want and see what waits for us there.
A place where we can look beneath every rock.
A place where, if it gets cold, we can move a little closer.
A place where the stars are so bright they seem to tell stories of their own, if we are quiet enough to listen.
Maybe one day.
But for now, I hope my memories can paint the picture.
