Reflection Time

I’ve been going to the National Forest lately about an hour drive from where I live. There’s a calm out there like no other: a magical winter forest playground, and yet, I don’t feel the desire to play. Instead, I just want to be.

I want to be one with the tall pines and low hanging branches, bristles brilliant against the tundra backdrop, releasing nectar drops of melted snow. I tasted the sweet offering the other day, worried for half a second as I remembered that pine water is poisonous to cats, and then relaxed as I licked a few more drops. Further along my walk, as I grew thirsty, I dug under the dirt-speckled crust of ice and found pure snow. As I crunched on the clump in my hand like a snow cone, I remembered a science experiment my preschool teacher did—one that revealed all the hidden dirty particles in the snow. It was meant to scare kids out of enjoying winter. That was the deeper intention beneath the syllabus of science and excuse to use heat.

That scare tactic, along with many others, never deterred me from seeking exploration, spiritual refuge, and deep, deep sense of belonging and home in the woods. I have had my most intimate revelations among the trees and sky. Whenever the human world was too loud, too busy, too horrible, or too confusing, nature stretched open arms wide, offering miles and miles of solitude and insight from a variety of landscapes and viewpoints.

In Idaho, I watched the most beautiful blood orange sunset at the very top of a long, winding mountain road. In its overwhelming glow, I felt my longing heart melt, and yet at the same time, grow stronger. The profound fleeting beauty reminded me that my pain was fleeting too, and there was no need to fight it, deny it, or change it. The sky reflected and amplified to the universe my immensely loving heart, along with my ever-growing strength.

In a crater pit just outside of Wall, South Dakota, I stood under the stars. Surrounded by desert shrubs and dark red sand, all shrouded in grey without the sun, I felt no wind. The natural bowl in the earth protected me like a vacuum from all movement, light waves, and sound. Within its cup, held up as an offering, I communicated with the stars. My guides, beyond this life but always connected to my heart, morals, and invisible wings, blinked brightly at me. I smiled and laughed a bit as everything outside the desert bowl disappeared, and I and the galaxies danced and swirled, reveling in the endless space and possibilities. Faith was heightened that night as many fears and doubts drained away. I emerged renewed, almost untouchable in purity’s strength and abilities.

In Wyoming, I picnicked in a cemetery, picturesque in its natural beauty, sprinkled with small trees and overlooking a vast field that stretched out to a pointed, snow-topped mountain. The air was warm and heavenly, sparkling with pollen in the air that floated on angel’s wings, not according to gravity, but according to eternity, staying within the light, never reaching the ground. While my cat and I rested there, a curious doe snorted from a short distance away. She was intrigued, not afraid. I watched as she ducked her head, darted back a bit, and then moved closer, all the while my cat looked on calmly, equally unafraid. She stayed around us while we ate, and in those moments, all three of us felt true peace and serenity. We all felt equally magical that late afternoon.

Back in the National Forest here in Vermont, just a short drive from my safe and secure human home, I can finally appreciate the natural sense of home with the ground under my feet. There is no unnecessary fear, and there is no need to power up and run anymore. I think this is why I feel so calm. For years—most of my life in many senses—I have been working hard to survive, fighting to stay awake, and living on the edge just to keep from falling backward into the destruction and chaos behind. In the unstable world, nature and the universe kept me solid with boulder arms, elevated experiences, and intensely powerful moments to flood my veins with hope and extra abilities to stay safe in what was an intricately unsafe world.

Now that everything has changed, and I have miraculously come full circle to the very state where I first intimately celebrated and explored God—all versions from every religion and belief—I feel peace. There is an ease to walking in these woods, driving along the wide rocky rivers, and breathing in the cloud steam exhaled by the mountains that I once dubbed “dragon breath.” On the white blanketed trails, crouched along frozen wetlands and icicle streams, there is a tiny patch of fuzz inside of me, similar to the green moss growing on warm spots of tree. Vermont is my home. My whole life, I have felt homeless, distracting people away from the question, their desire to know my original place and from where I came. It turns out none of that matters once you finally feel home—personal, natural, belonging, born-again home.

After realizing these truths today and walking off the trail and up the road a bit, I came to a giant blue mountain. It stood in the distance across an expanse of thick reservoir ice, reflecting a great-great grandfather sense of knowing. It reflected beginning of time wisdom, unshakeable strength, and mystical beauty in its unexpected color. I’m learning the natural flow of my newfound home. Green mountains are for exploration, healing, creativity, and play, and the rare blue mountain is for reverence.