Hidden Pathways

Thoughts while on a walk through the forest

1.

Which way should I go today? I wonder, holding tight to the plastic handle of my dog Mabel’s extendable leash. If I turn right, I’ll go into the town our house sits at the edges of, atop a little hill. If I turn left, I’ll go into the woods. To be sure, the town has its own loveliness, sturdy old houses of brick and plaster with white lace curtains bisecting the windows. But it’s always more or less the same, while the woods change constantly to reveal something new every time I enter them. Ever since we moved into our house at the very end of May, the trees beckoned me in the sighing wind through the branches and the golden shafts of light through the branches. Fallen logs over the path called to the little girl I once was to come scramble over them, and stumps of trees robed in plush, green moss invited me to sit awhile in silence.

I turn left.

The leaves were vibrant green in summer, when I first saw them. More recently, they’ve lit up like flames of gold and orange. But here in the second half of November, most of the trees are bare, dark trunks exposed, their fire colors now cooled embers. Blackberry bushes crowded over the trail in the summer, but they have also shrunk back and withered, ready for a winter slumber. Over the few days since I last walked this way, the scenery has changed so much that I almost don’t recognize my favorite path winding into the forest. But Mabel sees it immediately and turns, her sturdy little dachshund body curious and sure-footed, leading the way. 

2.

On three separate occasions while walking through these woods, I’ve witnessed branches, swollen from rain or broken by wind, crash suddenly to the ground. In another forest near Anacortes, Washington a dozen years ago, I walked one windy morning with Matt beside me and Wyatt tucked into a stroller that I pushed. Without any warning, a huge branch, so thick it would take both my hands to wrap around it, crashed down just a few feet in front of us. We jumped backwards, hearts racing, eyes wide with shock. After just a few moments, we moved forward again, cautiously, but I always remember that as I walk through these woods. Sometimes I wonder if the beckoning whispers of these trees are really siren songs.

But today there is no wind; the forest is still, and the thick carpet of leaves hushes my footfalls. The silence and the arches of the trees calls to mind the ancient churches we’ve visited since moving here to Germany. There is one place in the woods that feels so much like a cathedral, I can’t see it any other way. A grassy, sunlit glen between the trees comprises the nave, and the path forms a transept. The trees gather close again over the chancel where I can almost hear a choir. I love this secret cathedral, and I wish I could stay longer, whispering prayers and singing songs on its sacred ground.

 3.

We wind through the woods, Mabel and I. She snuffles the ground, her tail doing its funny, haphazard wave through the air behind her, as if propelling her forward. The other side of the forest opens to a huge field where wheat grew in the summer on one side of the path and potatoes on the other, uphill. Above us, the sky is a thick blanket of gray clouds.

Yesterday, as I stood at my kitchen sink, I heard squawking. Going to the window, I saw a flock of geese in a perfect V, flying south. When I was little and we lived in Bangladesh with its two barely distinguishable seasons, I read about this. All these years later, even though I’ve seen it so many times now, it still seems miraculous. I stood at the window, awestruck, watching in wonder.

The geese kept going all day, flock after flock. We’d seen one or two pass each day lately, but now it was almost constant. At one point, when I was out running errands, I saw three V’s flying together, the black lines of geese rising a little and then dipping down, floating on unseen waves.

Today, though, the sky is silent and empty. Not one single V passes overhead now. It’s as if they all decided that yesterday was the last day to travel. And I wonder, How did they know? 

On the other side of the field and down the trail, I enter another forest. There’s a long, steep hill, and I notice a deep groove through the carpet of leaves where the last rain formed a rivulet that carved a little canyon. As I step along in my hiking boots, I don’t notice the subtle changes in the ground. But I wonder what hidden pathways and depressions drew the water together like that.

4.

I dreamed of all my babies before they existed.

Sometimes it happened a year before they were born, and sometimes it was the month or week before they were conceived. The dreams were never a clear “story” but pieces. It was a tiny blue-eyed girl in my arms; or a head of downy hair turned away so I couldn’t see the face as I whispered, “Ssshh, let your baby sister sleep,” and closed a door; or a child’s laughter I heard just before waking that left me with an ache to know whose it was. Once my babies were in my arms, I nuzzled their soft cheeks, inhaling the scent of their milk-sweet breath, certain I had already known them for such a long time.

5.

It starts raining again on the long climb up the hill to our home, tiny pin pricks hitting my face. I’m on the main path that cuts through the forest, where cars drive just often enough to churn up mud from under the leaves. I walk carefully here because my steps feel uncertain, unsafe, as if my feet might slip out from under me. But as I trudge on, I see gold leaves floating on the surface of the brown, bright as beacons of light. 

I don’t want to leave the woods, but I’ve been gone awhile now. I’m hungry and ready for chaos, noise, and warmth. Once again, Mabel knows exactly where to turn without me having to tell her. She leads the way back to our house, where the light shines through the glass panels of our front door, four rectangles of yellow on the slick ground, welcoming us home.