The Lost Woods

THE LOST WOODS

Few believe they will become lost, and yet people every day find it difficult to find their way. Not in a physical sense, or a metaphysical realm, but in life’s trajectory. We are not provided a map when we are born or a place we are asked to accept; we have no alternative. We become part of a race or culture because…? There is no rhyme nor reason to why we are born who we are. There is no one to blame, not one to credit, for as we come to life on our own, so do we depart from it. The difference, that gray area between the two that allows us to appreciate our gift, or despair, because of it.

Our map is bare of direction; it requires we draw our own longitude, latitude, our own topography, our own path. No one is exempt, as no one is exempt from loss. No matter what we attain or loose is dependent upon an array of circumstances that we do not control, nor can we. We are left to follow the footsteps in the snow, the beach sand, the ruts in the mud; alone, no matter the company we keep. We may find ourselves lost from a variety of causes; no matter the reasons, we all share the impulse to look for guidance, a sign post, an arrow>Minneapolis 1250 miles, Portlandic…? Something, anything, that points to a way out. Yet we know deep within ourselves that there is no way out. We are left with the realization that what this is… is all there is.

When we inherit life, we inherit the good, the bad, and the ugly, but no matter our lot, it is our opportunity to do with it as we chose. It is easy to blame circumstance for failure, as easy as it is to credit success to luck or good fortune. We, however, despite the depth of snow, the amount of rain, or depth of mud, are told to follow the footsteps that have preceded us, if we wish to take advantage of the sacrifices that have been made in the name of progress, a future. Sacrifices? Whose? When? Why? all unanswerable questions as there is no depth to eternity. All we can do is be thankful for being somewhere else when the bombs fell, bullets reigned, and hunger crept like a thief in the darkness to steal what little belief we had left.

It is easy to be blinded by the concept of community when we function as individuals and are rewarded or punished because of our individuality. We live in a society dependent upon the collective nature of “All.” We are trapped by the confines of both, and yet we do not understand how it is possible to be an individual and a member of society at the same time. Confusion allows us to abandon one or the other, sometimes both in an attempt to follow for a singular path in an environment strewn with distractions. Which distractions lessen the amount of snow, rain, or mud? I would suggest, none. Our only recourse is to keep our head down, and be grateful when our time comes. What comes…life, death, change, despair, confusion, hope? Salvation? Imagination? Infinity?

Once you realize you are lost, expended all your options-north, south, east, west; cloudy, no compass, no sunset; all trees look alike when they collapse into a mirage of distance that stifles your intuitive nature; your will to survive.

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I sit under a leafless tree, its peeling reddish brown bark; beautiful. I look for the poet, the painter, imagination, but all I see is trees, but then there is the music. I had forgotten trees communicate when we remember to listen. Two remaining leaves, brownish yellow, hang precariously flapping like distress flags in the light breeze, chattering about the stories they have watched unfold. I feel the cold, the dampness, finding its way toward my tired bones. I have given up in order to make peace with where I am, how I got here, and begin to write my obituary in the... My ungloved finger slides effortlessly through the crystalized memories of far-off places that have been sent here in an attempt to rescue me from myself.

The snow, a white carpet covering springs hope, daffodils, periwinkle, an acorn bursting from its shell in hopes of one day becoming part of the mystery that surrounds me.

I had anticipated a normal transition to the other side of the unknown; a heart attack, stroke, pneumonia, being hit by a bus while attempting to cross a street that has forgotten how old I’ve become. But I never intended to watch myself disappear with each degree of separation, leaving me alone to contemplate a life I’d forgotten in many ways to live.

When you begin to look for salvation, and realize it is too late when the proverbial train is pulling from the platform and your ticket has expired. There are faceless figures, their hands waving farewells, their lips frozen into smiles, their eyes closed, no longer able to recognize you after two generations of time.I understand, I have forgotten to remember that life is not eternal, death maybe, but as the cold dictates my last thoughts, I can only think of the regrets I never had, or have chosen to forget.

There is a time that comes when reality escapes to a place that you once abandoned, but no longer can; the evidence is to powerful to ignore. All you can do is accept the inevitable no matter the time or means, and remember sitting by the fire watching the lightning leap from the ashes of the iron cave that imprisons them is turning a blush red. I can feel the warmth radiating through me, it becoming a future I will not experience unless my guardian angel returns from vacation with the news that I can no longer pretend not to hear.

I lean back against the shaggy bark and feel a comfort consuming me that I have not felt before. I can’t help but wonder if I’ve given up, am dead, but have yet to realize the significance. Most of life is a meteor shower that we have not taken the time to appreciate. I can feel the crystals forming on my eye lids, my lips turning purple; drowning in the cold is not at all what I’d expected.

One of the petrified leaves above drifts slowly through the lessening light and lands by my hand. It carries a message from a million years ago, carried to this point in time by an underground nervous system similar to my own. It whispers, “Look….See!”

Not having communicated with the future before I at first don’t understand, but take the advice I assume is given with the interest of ones who have experienced life and death before. When you feel the show is about to end, you begin to debate leaving before the crowd has the same inclination, but you haven’t finished the popcorn; it has too much salt and not enough…?

I don’t know whether I was dreaming or…? So I take the advice, if it was good enough for a dream, it is good enough for me. “Look….See!"I allow my watery eyes to survey the landscape and find that the only bridge to the past, possibly a different future, a trail of impressions, depressions in the snow.

The thought occurs to me that I am not lost. All I have to do is follow the wavering depressions to their genesis and Wha-la, freedom to die at a later time when I anticipate being better prepared.

I begin once again to extrapolate the reasons for life from the future of a destiny assigned to us. Does it matter if I transfer from one unending state to another, when I consider that I am but a speck of dust under a bed that is over millions of years old.The last leaf falls and now rests next to its mate. I look into the bare branches and can feel the mud thawing below me, the rain forming on the coast, and the snow beginning to shrink from the sheer exhaustion of a long winter.

I attempt to force myself from the cold catacomb I’ve invented to ease my transition from who I am, to who I always wished I could be. My legs are barely able to keep me upright. My mind has atrophied and fails to give the necessary commands. I can’t see that the effort is worth the reward; although enticing, it is like being offered a chocolate sundae without a spoon.

Sometimes it is best to forget who we are and pretend to be someone else; someone who lives in a climate where the ground doesn’t turn to stone and water falls from the sky like tear drops from the gods. But what is the use of hyperbole when you realize the cars battery is dead and no matter how hard you pray, God will be deciding whether to save a poor soul caught in the rip currents off the coast of South Carolina and not hear your pleading.

I leave the garage disappointed; I so did look forward to the ice cream, despite the temperature hurdling over the zero-degree mark.But life is like that when the ground begins to resemble asphalt, the sky becomes a constant gray that causes your colonoscopy surgery to become a joyful memory, and your foot prints in the snow begin to ask you where you hid the shovel last spring. There are always more questions, than there is time to listen to the answers.