by Nicolette L, Cagle, Ph.D., Durham, NC
I entered the woods curious and open today, for no particular reason. Perhaps it was the crisp air and the overcast sky. The morning felt as clarifying as a splash of cold water on my face.
I noticed a towering Virginia pine along the trail, ten inches in diameter, its bark a rusty brown. I can’t remember noticing that tree or its color before. I noticed white mushrooms with rich brown gills flopping out of a hardwood log. There was something strange and ridiculous about them. How many times had I passed that log without a second glance?
When I reached the river, I walked along the cobbled bank, young sycamores and Yankeeweed brushing my hips. There, attached to a stump left behind by high water, was a lovely wooden sign. I’d never seen it before.
The birds seem to be making odd calls today, too. Their beeps and crescendos sound like a game that began in good fun and has inexplicably turned serious.
My senses must have grown stiff with disuse, atrophying and ossifying. Now they feel washed clean and nimble again. I can see the orange and yellow leaves mirrored in the still water of Synnott’s Hole. I can hear the crackling call of a kingfisher and, farther off, the rumble of traffic. Today I can listen to both without judgment.
I came to the woods a little more curious today. What a beautiful lesson: to walk a trail I know so well and see it anew, to be reminded that the familiar can become new again.
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