This morning I went to the woods. I went to the woods because I believe in magic. I believe in magic because this world is deep and mystifying and ridiculous and the handiwork of an almighty, forever young, immortal God. I expect to be shocked every time I wander among the trees. And every time, my eyes grow wider.
I went to bed at 9:30 last night. I’m not usually old, but I felt tired and turned in early. My body woke up around 4:30 this morning. I put a record on in the dark and then lingered in bed, letting the soft music weave into the shadows. After Bible reading and coffee, I went out into the world.
It was about 20 degrees this morning. With the wind chill, it was awful. But there’s a wonderful little valley here in St. Louis where you can wander on trails. Sadly, the dull roar of the highway is always there, but the forest itself is still good.
I picked a new trail in the valley today. Within the first two minutes of walking, I couldn’t feel my face. And within the first three minutes, I saw a massive buck. He was down on his knees behind a tree, but his bone-white antlers were poking out. After taking a very blurry picture of him with my camera phone, I moved on.
Literally ten steps after that, I spotted four does (not to be confused with dids) sauntering a bit off the trail. Those ladies were much more obliging to a brief photo shoot. The deer in this valley have no fear of people. They will let you get quite close and it’s brilliant.
In contrast, a buck (and I also saw one towards the end of the stroll – maybe it was the same one?), a buck just stares you down. When an 8-point buck is standing twenty feet from you, there’s this wonderful sense of terror. Those black eyes dare you to take a step forward. It’s just looking for an excuse to charge and gore you to death with its spikes. Gloriously humbling.
Perhaps the best part of my morning stroll was the fox. I’d never seen a fox in the wild before, but just after seeing the does, I heard a rustle of dead leaves ahead. I looked up and a faerie firework burst from the dead ground. A golden orange sunburst with a comet tail of black and white. In no more than five leaping bounds, the fox crossed the trail and vanished into the underbrush. I never saw him again. It thrilled me deeply.
And the trees! Oh, the trees. I blame Tolkien for letting me fall in love with them. Bitternut hickories, sugar maples, dogwoods, all silent and old and slumbering in the wind. Crooked and twisted stumps bent backwards and leered at me. I know exactly why I love them. It’s the same reason I love books.
Humanity has its origins in the soil. We are born of the earth, crafted from the dust of the ground. Trees root deep into the same nursery. Ultimately, humans and trees sprouted from the same soil. Humans just don’t lay down roots with the same doggedness as trees.
Books are born from trees. People and trees sprouted from the same depths. So,every time I hold a book, I secretly hope it will take root in the palm of my hand. So far, it hasn’t happened. But I keep praying for that kindred connection to sprout up.
I hope you’ve notice that I use the word “stroll”. I can’t abide people who jog or run through the woods. And even “walking” is a bit too callous and hasty. When you’re in a wood, surrounded by hibernating magic and deep wonder, you have to stroll. You have to keep your eyes open, you have to step quiet, and you have to take time for enjoyment. Otherwise, it’s a waste.
Go find some place beautiful and look at it until you’re shocked. There’s a surplus of magic in this world. Poke it with a stick until the honey seeps out. Amen.
