Prologue

John 

Slender strands of mist swirled over the still surface of Prompton Lake; lacy twelve inch strands, swirling clock wise, counter clockwise.  I stood by the lake and watched each of my exhalations form a small cloud that floated out and mingled with the morning mist.  It seemed as if my breath, although following a different time scale, somehow joined the greater respiration of the lake. 

Behind me I heard a few morning bird songs; the insistent teecha, teecha, teecha of an ovenbird, the harsh chek, chek, chek of a red-winged black bird in flight , and the distant caw, caw, caw of a crow.

Across the lake above the tree line a billow of soft yellow lifted into the sky announcing the approaching sunrise.  I was waiting for my friend, Bill Johnson. We were going to do a “socially distanced” forest mindfulness session on the little peninsula, my home sit spot where I carried out a year of weekly nature observation sessions described in my book, The Stillness of the Living Forest:  A Year of Listening and Learning.

I was glad to be doing a shared sit spot. From the few I had done with others, I had discovered how unique other’s perceptions can be; how the same sounds and sights could engender very different feelings, thoughts, and associations.  I was intrigued, even excited, at the prospect of learning something new about how another person connects with nature.

Bill, a poet and a gardener, a personable former grade school teacher and educational book consultant, wanted to experience forest mindfulness.  Something I had said over dinner months ago had registered with him. Since then he had asked me often when we were going to do our sit spot together.

Bill

I arrived early at Prompton State Park on the first sunny day we’d had in early May.  John invited me to join him at his home sit spot, the place where he gathered information for his book.

John and I are longtime friends, nature and bird lovers and avid gardeners.  He had often encouraged me to join him to practice the art of sitting still in the forest and quietly record what I saw and heard in my notebook.

Something John had said at a Christmas dinner had registered deeply and motivated me to join him. My intuition, which I have learned to trust, told me that I needed to experience forest mindfulness for my own health and well-being and to deepen the nature poetry wanted to write.  I wanted to improve my sensory awareness, to learn to listen and really hear nature sounds—the wind, the leaves and the birdsongs. 

I already did daily “walk-abouts” in the late afternoon around the wooded property and ponds that I shared with my wife.  I carried a notebook, and paused to jot nature notes, but was usually on the move.  Sitting still and letting nature come to me would need practice and I was ready to begin.

The West Shore Trail

Bill  

Armed with a small shoulder bag with necessary writing tools and a folding stool hung over my shoulder I followed John’s quiet footsteps down a well-worn, well-trodden trail covered with old brown leaves in various states of decay and transition.  A pleasant earthy, musty smell filled the air.

John walked ahead of me, comfortable in his familiar territory.  He seemed pleased that I had agreed to come along and share his special place. In a few minutes we arrived at the tip of the peninsula, where John sat me next to the big black cherry tree described in his book. 

He gave me brief instructions to place my notebook on my lap, draw what he called a sensory awareness circle, and put a dot in the middle that represented me. Then over a 10 minute interval I was to jot down all that I saw, heard, felt, and smelled locating it around the circle.  I was also free to write down any thoughts, feelings or associations that emerged.

John told me he would call out an owl hoot when he was set and we would both begin our first observation interval at the same time.  I watched him walk out of view realizing that I was on my own now.  I got my notebook ready and began to quiet my mind.

John 

The West Shore Trail was a familiar friend and just like being in the company of an old friend I sensed the accumulated good memories and feelings of positive attachment.  I had walked this trail once a week for a full year, each time filled with curiosity and anticipation.  And over the course of the weeks and months I had felt more welcome, more connected, and more grateful.

My eyes took in the familiar landmarks along the way; the grove of tall, straight ash saplings, the big, flat flagstone set across a tiny water course, the downhill sweep that afforded a close up view of the lake, the ascent into mature mixed hardwoods, and the arrival at the spring-fed, moss covered seep.  We paused at the seep, listened to the hushed gurgle of the downhill flowing water and gazed at the verdant blanket of moss, cress and grass. 

Interval 1:  6:45 am                           First Impressions

John

I left Bill under the big black cherry tree, my home sit spot where I was confident he would see and hear some good stuff.  I thought it would be a good idea to give Bill his own space to have his own experiences.  I wandered about a 100 yards away to the base of the peninsula and found a small open spot beneath a tall white pine tree. 

I set up my camp stool and sat down facing the sun just as it edged above the tree line across the lake. The temperature was a chilly 28 degrees, the sky above a vast clear blue.  I drew my first circle and began to jot down my sensory impressions.

I felt the first warming rays of the sun touch my face. I couldn’t detect any wind against my skin, but when I studied a slender dried goldenrod stalk I saw it sway slightly and I noticed the leaves of a garlic mustard plant tremble slightly. There was movement and life in the air.

I heard the rich warble of a rose-breasted grosbeak, the bright whistle of a cardinal, and the strident calls of a blue jay.   Ahead of me unfolding green leaves of wild raspberries shone in the sunlight.   At my feet loose snow white flowers festooned stems of garlic mustard.

Bill

Sitting quietly, I felt the warmth of the sun on my back.  A blue jay called stridently, sounding like it was scolding someone.  A crow cawed harshly.  Both birds didn’t sound pleased that I was in their space.  Then, gradually, the chorus of bird songs all around me began to sound like music.  I didn’t know the various songs, but blended together they sounded harmonious and made me feel welcome. I smiled and settled in.

Interval 2: 6:55 am                            The Quiet Chorus

John  

For mid-May it was quiet, but I remembered that it had been unseasonably cold for weeks.  Perhaps the birds had detected the persistent north winds and had used their finely tuned adaptability to delay their journey.  Perhaps on this frosty morning they were more focused on finding food than singing.

Gradually a few morning songsters took stage.  A woodpecker hammered on a hollow resonant tree, a kind of percussion introduction.  A flicker added its loud, repetitive kik-kik-kik-kik.   A veery chimed in with sharp veer, veer, veer calls.  A catbird sang a jumbled song that ended with a plaintive mew, mew. A song sparrow trilled. And in the back ground a mourning dove crooned coo, coo, coo.

The spacing between the songs made it easier to identify them.  Then a cardinal, catbird and song sparrow sang simultaneously and I remembered how much I loved the jazzy, lilting, overlapping, bird songs of the early morning chorus. I knew that technically these songs were functional, were territorial proclamations, yet I couldn’t  help thinking that in the first morning burst of song there was something more, some celebratory ode to joy.  

Bill

I heard the soft, slow refreshing sound of water running, a tiny creek flowing down the hillside in the woods.  Glancing out over the lake I saw strands of gray, wispy morning mist floating over the water.  I noticed my breathing had slowed.  I was beginning to relax and sense the pattern and connectedness of it all.

As I listened to the sound of the water flowing I thought how I had learned in life how to cross a river, and sometimes how to stand in the river and let it flow through me, but now I wanted to get better at sitting quietly by the river and letting it teach me.

Interval 3:  7:05 am                           Never Far Away

Bill

Bird songs continued all around me, each like a different instrument playing the music of the forest.  The forest floor was covered with years and years of layered leaves, moss, and broken limbs, all ingredients, all essential elements creating this wooded garden.  It was like a curtain opened, revealing another scene, presenting a changing cast in a never ending story.

I was very glad to be in the middle of this uplifting nature story.  It was a welcome break from the dark tale of the Covid-19 pandemic. 

John

More bird songs joined the morning chorus.  A blue heron squawked as it flapped along the shoreline.  Two crows cawed a duet.  A raven croaked a loud, far-carrying cr-r-ruck.  Nearby I heard, the sweet, sweet, sweet, a little more sweet of a yellow warbler.  This was a true spring song I thought.  As the warbler repeated its sweet song, I felt my shoulders relax, felt myself settling into spring.

The sound of a jet liner rumble-whooshing far overhead snapped me out of my reverie. It was the first airliner I had heard this morning.  Usually, during an hour at Prompton I would hear a dozen or more airliners flying to and from the airports of metropolitan New York, but now the flights were reduced due to the Covid-19 Pandemic.  I wondered how the quiet, the decreased exhaust pollution, and the absence of sun obscuring vapor trails might affect the birds, mammals, reptiles and amphibians that lived in and around Prompton Lake.

My phone chimed, a text message from home with the news that some counties in Pennsylvania were going to be moving to Yellow Phase; a slight relaxation of restrictions, a beginning of a re-opening.  Even here in the woods the impacts of the Covid-19 Pandemic were unfolding, their long and short term effects hard to gauge.

Interval 4:  7:15 am                           Here Comes the Sun

Bill

I looked around at all the tree shadows illuminated clearly by the bright morning sun.  Each tree shadow was different in size and shape…tall-short, thick-thin, young-old, straight-crooked; all with branches reaching out.

I felt overwhelmed by the variety of life forms surrounding me. When I spotted my own shadow sharply traced across the forest floor I realized that I too was part of this diversity of life.

John 

Sunlight warmed my face and chest.  I felt warm enough to take off my stocking cap and absorb the blessing of sunlight directly on my forehead. The temperature was still in the thirties but the high May sun, the bringer of rebirth and rejuvenation was not to be denied.  Bathed in sun light and basking in sun warmth I thought how natural it must have been for ancient peoples to worship the sun.

The brightening light illuminated a huge, gray, wedge-shaped rock in front of me.  I studied the layers of debris that had fallen into indentations on the rock; pine needles, maple, beech and ash leaves.   Over time with the moisture of rain and the heat of sun the lower layers of debris had composted into enough soil to provide a home for an opportunistic tuft of bright green grass to sprout.  The more open areas of the rock were colonized by patches of dark green moss and bands of blue-green lichen.  The rock looked like a kind of unscripted yet deep-designed terrarium.

The birds also seemed to welcome the increasing light and warmth.  The tempo, variety and intensity of the songs picked up.  A male yellow warbler flitted by, perched on the tip of a willow branch, tilted back his head, revealed the delicate orange stripes on his breast, and launched into his clear, sweet song.  Behind me two ovenbirds, loudly singing teecha, teecha, teecha sounded like dueling banjos, staking competing claims to plots of forest territory.  Near the shoreline I heard the improbably complex, high-pitched, lilting, jumbled, tinkling, trill of a winter wren.

Interval 5:  7:25 am                           A Peek Inside

Bill

I drew another circle and began to make notes for a new 10 minute interval.  The circles, the deepening sensory awareness, the notebook in my lap, my hand moving pencil across paper all blended together and began to feel like a sacred ritual, like a form of prayer.  Each time I drew another circle it was a new beginning, a new act in the play of nature, and each act pulled me deeper into mindfulness.

A far off car noise, then two geese honked back and forth somewhere far out over the water. The sounds brought me back to this act, to this stage.  I was simply sitting quietly in this forest, listening, observing, writing in my notebook, feeling inner and outer worlds joining, noticing how the beauty outside invited me to become aware of the beauty inside.

John 

A bird landed in a bush twenty feet ahead.  I slowly brought up my binoculars for a close up look. The bird had a brownish back with accents of black, a grayish eyebrow, and most significantly clear black stripes on its breast that merged into a distinct black spot. It was a song sparrow.

The sparrow seemed agitated, flicked its tail, flitted to another twig, and made repeated, sharp, tink, tink, tink calls that were echoed by its nearby partner.  Gradually it seemed to settle down and its call shifted to soft, soothing chimp, chimp calls.  I could hear its partner, hidden somewhere in the bushes responding in synchrony as the birds kept in touch with their contact calls.

The sparrow flew up to the slender branches of a gray birch, edged out to the end of a twig and began to pick for tiny seeds inside the birch catkins,  I watched it move from branch to branch, twig to twig, feeding steadily, purposefully, successfully.  Apparently satisfied it leaned its head back like an opera singer, opened its short conical beak and trilled its energetic maids, maids, maids put on your tea-kettle-lettle-lettle.

I felt like I had been granted an intimate view inside the life of a song sparrow.  I had seen its plumage, listened to its two different contact calls, watched it feed, and saw and heard it sing.  It was a moment of beauty, a moment that filled my heart, informed my mind, and lifted my spirits.  It was a moment that reminded me of the value of sitting still, blending in, and being present when nature reveals itself.

It was a moment that reminded me of what Aldo Leopold wrote in A Sand County Almanac when he gazed at sandhill cranes in flight, “Our ability to perceive quality in nature begins, as in art, with the pretty.  It expands through successive stages of the beautiful to values as yet uncaptured by language.”

Interval 6: 7:35 am                            The Life Arc

John 

It was the final ten minute interval. Time had flown.  I looked around me and as so often happens during a sit spot I suddenly began to fully see the richness of the plant life around me.  It felt as if a veil had been lifted.

To my right, the leaves of an American Black Current had unfurled; light green, five lobed, serrated leaves.  On the ground tiny foot high woody sprouts of European Bird Cherry displayed smooth, spear shaped, reddish tinged leaves.  To my left the leaves of a small Ironwood tree were just opening; prominently veined, corrugated spring green leaves.  At my feet I saw the first creamy-white, tiny, five-lobbed blossoms of wild strawberries.  All around me brambles of wild red raspberry grew; arrowhead shaped leaves unfolding, some tinged with red, a hint of the tasty fruit that would follow.

Canes of wild raspberry arced over the big rock, a profusion of green illuminated by angled morning sunlight, an arc of new life.  I inhaled the earthy fresh fragrance of new leaves, of the fertile forest soil.  The boundaries between self and surroundings blurred and I felt that I too belonged to this arc of life. 

A goldfinch flew over singing “per-chick-oree.”  A woodpecker drummed. Mourning doves cooed.  A robin sang ‘cheerily-cheer up, cheerily-cheer up.”  My hour was up. I packed my gear and headed back through the woods to find my friend.

Bill

The sun was up higher, but I could still see a pale white half-moon floating in the vast blue morning sky. As I gazed at the moon I thought for a second that it winked at me, a kind of knowing wink as if we shared some secret of nature. I laughed, blinked, and when I looked up I just saw the moon.

My notebook lay open on my lap, each page filled with notes and sketches of all that I heard and seen. It was hard to believe that an hour had already gone by. I was surprised at how much happened in nature when you sit still and observe.  Sitting still was easier than I had imagined. I realized that now I could do sit spots at home.  I was sure it would help me gather material and draw inspiration to write poems for children, poems that might draw children into the healing world of nature.

I heard John’s footsteps coming my way.  I was glad to reunite with him and share my impressions yet part of me was reluctant to leave the solitude and peace of the forest.

                                                            The Return

John

Bill was sitting on his camp stool, taking notes when I arrived.  He looked relaxed, and happy.  If nothing else, an hour sitting in the woods was rejuvenating.  His first comment was that now he thought he understood the term “forest stillness.” 

We walked back along the West Shore Trail maintaining the prescribed six feet of physical distance.  When we arrived at the parking we saw a dad walking his young daughter and son down to the lake to go fishing.

We exchanged greetings.  The dad explained that he had had it with home schooling. I asked the kids if they missed school.  “Not at all”, said the girl with a shy smile.  The boy chimed in enthusiastically, “We love it out here.  We’ll learn a lot more in nature.”

Bill and I looked at each other, smiled, and nodded in agreement.

Bill

Once again I followed John’s quiet footsteps along the soft musty trail back to the parking lot.  As we arrived we saw a father and his two children by the lake getting ready to fish, connecting with nature in their own special way.

A curtain opened, another scene, a changing cast, all part of a never ending story.

This sit spot took place on May 13, 2020 at Prompton State Park.  You can read about my year of sit spot adventures at Prompton Lake in The Stillness of the Living Forest available on Amazon and through Shanti Arts Publishing.

If you would like to join me for a sit spot or do one on your own and share it on Foreststillness.com please let me know.