As a child my daily routine included long walks along the brook that led me deep into the woods near my house. There was a constancy in the forest. While the level of the brook changed with the rains, a fat log, smoothed through years bridged Shaw’s hill where we sledded in the winter with the path that led to Indian Cliff. Once on the opposite bank, I held my arms up and shimmied through a thorny stand of bushes thinking that maybe this time I would emerge unscathed. This opened into a field with a defined path that may have once been a gravel road. Likely it served purpose to the one lone farm house within my vision; an intrusion that seemed to loom over me, as I turned my face toward the woods. Indian Cliff afforded an exhilarating rush of water, a near waterfall, more woods that if you walked far enough led to encroaching housing developments. Most time was spent near the water or exploring woods nearby.
As a child I listened. I listened to the birds, to the crickets and to the rush of water. But most importantly, I listened to myself. I listened to the nudges. I listened to the urgings. Go to the woods. Feed yourself with the earth. Inhale the intoxicating powers that surround you. I need to find that freedom to listen again. To go. Be.