November as seen under Pole Mountain between the naked Aspen trees.
The woods are still, though I know there is a gentle movement in the cool air along the treetops as I hear the whine of two aspen rasping against each other, irregular yet steady in their own rhythm of the woods. I stand by the wallow and look for recent elk tracks. There are none. The water is static and transparent. No one has stepped in to stir up the muddy bottom. Not today, at least. I wonder how long it may have been.
The weight of the world seems so heavy at times. Just minutes ago, I sat in the chair by the computer debating over book keeping. I am not good at it. I do not like it. I do it anyway. Still, my mind was elsewhere. The same paper, the same number, over and over as I tried to focus time and time and time again.
The resolve to get up and go was gone. I wanted to sink into the chair and fade away, become a part of the desk, a part of the room, invisible.
Isn’t it odd how we humans can be? Waves of languor crushing us against the shore. A very strong voice inside still tells us to stand up and start. If we don’t listen, that voice gets louder. It will yell if need be. Sooner or later, we will listen, and then probably wonder why we didn’t heed the counsel before.
I put down my pen. Now I grasp my walking stick, a smooth aspen Forrest had peeled for me perfectly one spring when the sap was running, stripping off the outer chalky bark in even strokes with his pocket knife, revealing the moist, fair, silky flesh within. The top is now worn, darkened and imprinted where my bare hands hold.
Within minutes, I am deep in the woods, alone. I stand taller and breathe again. The weight of the world, once so heavy, becomes light, and is gone.
There is nothing but the thick of trees about me. And yet, so much more. Suddenly, we learn to see.