Into the Woods

part one

Photo by Aaron Burden on Unsplash

There is a reservoir a few miles from our house that I have adopted as My Woods. It is not nearly as abundant and private as the old woods I grew up in, but it’s much more accessible to me right now, and any forest is better than none. Along the reservoir runs a well-beaten path laced with tree roots and the occasional boardwalk for crossing a creek or muddy patch. There is a surprising number of small ecosystems along that walk: a swamp, a miniature forest of baby pine trees, a high canopied stretch of beach and oak trees that feels like a cathedral, the stand of old familiar willow and horsetail grass like we had growing along our creek back home that inhabits a natural beach on one side of an inlet in the reservoir. The hillsides above the reservoir are crisscrossed with less established paths mostly used by mountain bikers and the more adventurous hikers, and these boast some real treasures, like the jack-in-the-pulpit we found growing in one spot last year. I had only ever seen jack-in-the-pulpit once before. It’s a distinctive plant, the one we found was light green with white stripes, the large flower shaped like a narrow cone with a flaring lid protecting the stamen inside. Naturally, it’s these less traveled paths that I gravitate to when I walk here.

It was to these woods I fled when the trouble at church started. That Sunday my sweet husband made lunch for our girls after church while I drove to the trailhead, parked, and walked furiously and mostly unseeing, conducting an exasperated and emotionally charged conversation in my head with the pastor who had seen fit to correct me publicly, yet again, for sharing a personal opinion she felt was unscriptural. I have a tendency to verbally process problems, which means I was occasionally talking out loud to the trees that curled above me and rustled their concern. I’m sure anyone who passed gave me a wide berth. Anger, humiliation, and frustration leached out with my sweat. It took about a mile of holding my furious pace for me to calm down enough to start feeling the crisp fall breeze, the sun still warm and glinting off the water, the trees still clothed in summer, late flowers lifting their faces to the sun just as I was. In the quietude of a million living things breathing and moving and going on about their day, I could face the fear that was causing me to react so strongly to the rejection I was experiencing at church.