One early morning in April, a woman was hiking through a dense forest when she came upon a fork in the trail. She had been walking for quite some time and felt ready for a rest. Pausing, she looked around, trying to make sense of which direction to take next.
To the left, the trail curved steeply out of sight, shrouded in mystery. To the right, the path climbed the mountainside—fairly straight, but strewn with rocks and roots. Last night’s rain had left the ground slick and muddy; choosing that direction might prove more challenging than she felt prepared for.
She sat down on a nearby fallen tree, slipped off her hiking boots and damp socks, and stretched her tired legs. Wiggling her toes, she let the breeze cool her feet while the sun wrapped her in a snug warmth. Tilting her face to the sky, she took a sip from the water bottle tucked into her tattered day pack.
The sky held that exact shade of blue that appears only after a warm spring rain. All around her, the forest pulsed with new life—leaves unfurling in bright green bursts, like the tender blades of grass she’d seen just yesterday in her yard. She had mowed the lawn for the first time this season and felt that familiar stirring inside her—the same sensation that had found her now, on this trail, in this moment.
It always started from outside her body—through her eyes, or ears, or nose, sometimes even her hands or feet—then slowly made its way inward, spiraling toward the deepest, most remote place inside her. Sometimes it arrived swiftly; other times, it moved like ivy, winding and wrapping around every part of her until she could barely breathe. Among the woven roots and wandering light, the woods whispered to her soul.
4o
