I was once a young woman in a dark place and had all but given up. I felt shattered, like a glass thrown at the wall. The glass had splintered all over the floor and embedded itself into the soles of my feet. My current existence wasn’t sustainable, and I felt like destroying everything. I thought that a hike in the woods would do me some good. Yes, I thought, I must go to the forest, to the rock outcropping and the creek, or I will surely die.
I bandaged my swollen feet and slid them into my boots. I shut the front door behind me more loudly than I intended, and I hobbled along the short, paved path to the trailhead. In just a few minutes, I stood at the entrance to the forest, exhaled and listened to the dense quiet. The air was thick with a freshness that can only be found amongst trees.
Carpets of emerald green covered the access to the trailhead. English Ivy had taken over everything; the saplings, the understory, the old growth trees, even the sign that read North Ridge Trail was smothered by the thick vines. The destruction both saddened and impressed me.
I limped into the mouth of the woods.
A stillness permeated the air as I descended the first ridge. Clean, light, peaceful and crisp, a deep quiet settled over me. The English Ivy thinned, and the ground was overspread with frozen leaves in shades of golden brown. Though my feet throbbed, the pain had lessened.
A variety of prolific shelf fungi dotted the fallen logs and tree trunks. Here, the air was humid and pungent with fresh rot. It had been a productive season. The mere existence of the fungi inspired me as they cleansed the decay that surrounded them. I thought of the mycelium below my feet, communicating with the world underneath, breaking it all down and making everything richer and simpler, more integrated.
Wending my way through twists and turns, I arrived at an outcropping known to the locals as Suicide Rock. The air hung heavily over the massive group of grey boulders. Sparkling in the dappled light and spotted with lichen and moss, the ancient hulks were assembled as if in conference, a council of wise elders. Brown, beige, orange and red mushrooms sprouted from the damp pits and cracks. Understory trees rose from the slits and crevasses, and their roots hung on to the impenetrable, hard surfaces.
Up one ridge and over the top, down the other side and back up another, I slowed down and took my time. I meandered. I listened to the birdsong. I thanked the quiet. I inhaled the frigid air, and it felt good in my lungs.
The creek revealed itself below, and I felt an urgency to be there. I half slid and half hiked down the steepest ridge yet, arriving at the bottom of the trail where the creek runs through and the Sycamore Grove lives. Amidst the gathering of Sycamores, a Grandmother Sycamore stood sentinel. Six enormous trunks emerged from one massive base. Here, I thought. Here.
I took off my gloves and touched the trunk, leaning against it for a rest. The layers and textures felt rough on the palms of my hands. My senses sharpened, and waves of gentle tenderness washed over me with an ineffable feeling which I can only describe as love, though love isn’t a big enough word. I felt an internal baptism of sorts as a cool, tingling sensation in my chest stripped away layers from my heavy heart, substrate by substrate. The moment was tender and delicate and lasted perhaps all of 10 seconds. Snow and tears fell and wet my lashes and cheeks.
I felt lighter in every way; my mind was clear and sharp, my lungs expansive. Outside of myself and deep within myself, Grandmother Sycamore said, “I’ll be here long after you’re gone.”
Startled, I bowed my head with humility and put my gloves back on. With a twinge of regret, I realized I had nothing to offer in return to Grandmother Sycamore—no flowers, no feathers, no cornmeal. Without judgment, condemnation or condescension, Grandmother Sycamore said, “Remember, you’re a human.”
I bowed my head again and felt comforted. The medicine had been given. The snow stopped.
I began the trek back to the house, up and down and up and down the steep ridges. I returned to Suicide Rock, where a herd of deer had gathered and grazed. I broke the blanket of silence with my loud steps. The herd stopped grazing, raised their heads, and watched me with wide eyes and twitching ears. I walked by and watched them in my peripheral vision, admiring their beauty and grace.
I hiked down, back up and down, and finally back up. The smell of laundry detergent and fast food signaled that I was close to the suburbs. I arrived at the gateway between forest and housing. My tender feet hit the pavement as I began the short walk back to my house.
I promised myself that I’d remember my place.
I am merely a human.