A Reflection on the Connections of the Woods

The rock wall reaches only to my knee now, and the hike up does not feel as long. My parents no longer have to pack a backpack of juice boxes and crackers to motivate me to reach the top, and my father does not have to hold my hand anymore as I climb over the tree stumps and fallen logs that break the path. “Lala’s Lookout”, my family calls that spot at the crest of our wooded hill. I have been hiking to it since I was first given that nickname, and after seventeen years it has remained unchanged. Seventeen years is not so long compared to the history of matters bigger than myself, that I do know. But for me, it is all I know so far. How is it that I have changed so drastically in the same period during which my wooded retreat has undergone no transformation? There is a wonder to the forest its regular visitors know well, a sense of comparative minimalism that stems from this juxtaposition. The woods has watched me grow up- what else has it seen?

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