The woods are lovely, dark, and deep,

But I have promises to keep,

Robert Frost   Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening

Prologue

I made my promise suddenly at the end of an hour long sit spot on a windy, bitterly cold January afternoon.  Surrounded by brown and gray, dead and dormant winter trees I felt a need to see the symmetry of the seasons.  I promised to return during the first week of June when the forest was reborn, filled with new green life, and resonating with bird songs.

The instant the promise was made I knew I had stepped on a slippery slope.  Fail to fulfil a promise and there are consequences; a disappointment in self, an erosion of self-esteem, a suppression of honesty.  And, I would once again have to face the twin nemeses of inertia and procrastination.

Late on the night of June 6th time, always a limited resource, was slipping away.  The window of opportunity to fulfill my promise was almost gone.  A check of the forecast revealed favorable conditions for the morning; sunny, clear and cool.  I went to sleep holding the intention to get up early and get back to the forest.

What part of the mind is it that links up with intention and brings gifts to fulfill commitments?  My first gift was a spontaneous wake up at 4:30 am.   A glance out the window revealed the faint illumination of first light beginning to spread above the horizon. 

The second gift was sensory acuity.  I clearly heard a robin pierce the nighttime silence with a few tentative notes and then launch into a loud, clear, cheerlily, cheer up, cheerily, cheer up.  Seconds later a cardinal joined in with a whistled purdy, purdy, purdy. In the background a tufted titmouse softly called here, here, here. A gust of wind whooshed softly through the leaves.  It was sit spot day and my senses were activated, acute and accurate.

The third gift was a choice made by my conscious mind, a cup of strong black coffee which I sipped on the porch while I laced up my boots.  I had learned that on sit spot day I could use every bit of alertness that coffee might provide.

The Approach

It was over mile to my spot in the forest, but I was glad to take an early morning walk, a simple and rich pleasure, and an opportunity to transition into the world of nature.  As the sun rose and cast a yellow glow on the landscape I followed a path through a grove of newly leafed-in ash trees and down a long hill surrounded by fields of tall growing grasses, wildflowers and full foliaged bushes.  I came to the edge of an old beaver pond, paused, scanned, and spotted a great blue heron standing on tall stilt legs along the far shore preening itself with its long bill.  I heard the musical chinga chinga chinga trill of a swamp sparrow, the enchanting witchety, witchety, witchety song of a common yellowthroat, and the harsh chek, chek, chek call of a redwing blackbird in flight.

I continued down a grassy path and along a little used gravel road.  Arriving at the second growth forest I was surprised to see that everything looked different.   The leaves were out, the weeds and grasses tall, and the shrubs thick with foliage.  I wondered if I could find my spot again.   Peering into the woods, I recognized a stand of tall hemlocks, bushwhacked through a patch of blackberry brambles, located the old stone wall, found a gap, stepped through, and felt a sense of relief when I saw an old friend, Big Bob, the tall, thick maple I had sat next to back in January.

Interval 1 6:40 am   Transitions

Setting up my camp stool in exactly the same place as in January, I sat down, pulled out my notebook, drew my first sensory awareness circle, and began to make notes of all that I saw, heard, felt and smelled.  I noticed that I had to shift gears to silent sitting mode.  Even though I had been walking through field and woods and had felt immersed in nature, I still had been moving, still hearing the sounds of my footsteps, still talking to myself about directions; mind and body busy.  I took a few deep breaths and settled into silence.

As silence grew within I began to hear the richness of the sounds around me.  An eastern wood-peewee whistled a plaintive PEEawee, PEEawee.  A veery sang an ethereal, flute-like, downward spiraling, vrdi, vreed, vreed, vreer, vreer. An ovenbird chattered its energetic teecha, teecha, teecha song.  A wood thrush fluted a resonant, haunting eee-o-lay song.  These were forest dwelling birds whose songs shared some elements of tone, some quality of resonance that allowed them to carry far through the woods.

In January when I had been here these birds had been wintering down south, around the Caribbean, and into Central and South America. Now, after an epic journey, they had returned to this second growth forest, to the habitat they preferred to mate, nest, breed, and feed.

I heard other sounds that had been missing in January, leaves whooshing softly in a gust of wind. Looking up I saw a thick canopy of minty-green, newly-unfurled leaves, saw cluster of leaves swaying, rippling and dancing in response to the wind. 

A flash of light near the stone wall caught my eye, the gossamer strands of a spider web illuminated by the angled rays of the sun. I knew that this, like so many moments of beauty in nature, was a fleeting phenomenon requiring the just-right coating of morning of dew and the just-right angle of the sun.  I gazed appreciatively at the shimmering web. When I looked away and then looked back, conditions had shifted and the web had vanished from view.

Interval 2   6:50 am   Hanging in Space

I hadn’t seen a single bird yet felt surrounded by avian presence.   It was, I realized, much more bird listening than bird watching.  As I sat still my hearing seemed to grow more acute, to reach further and further out into the woods.  In the distance I heard another forest dweller, a black-throated green warbler, singing its buzzy zoooo zeee zu zu zeet. 

A few year-around resident birds joined the morning chorus; crows cawing and a white-breasted nuthatch singing a nasal, single pitched whi-whi-whi-whi-whi-whi.  I wondered if these same birds had been here with me back in January.

A veery called a sharp veer, veer, veer.  I echo located it to a leafed in maple tree about forty yards way. A few minutes later it changed its call to yeet, yeet, yeet.  After a few minutes another change occurred, this time to dzup, dzup, dzup and then a minute later to a short, hoarse trill.  One veery, variable calls.  No bird guides list all of these alternative calls.  I felt the delight of another nature lesson learned.  It was a good reminder of the value of sitting still, of putting in “dirt time.”

The angled sunlight illuminated insects fluttering through the air.  Fixing my gaze in one direction for a count of ten seconds I counted eleven in flight; a plethora of insect life, a fully laden table for the wood warblers and spiders. Not surprisingly, in a gap between two bushes I spotted a spider moving on an invisible web.  It looked like it was operating in open space.

As I watched the spider move slowly to the left and then back to the right I felt a sense of connection.  Weren’t we all like this little spider?  Didn’t we all have to leave the security of branch and twig and venture out in to open space to find our way?

Interval 3 7:00 am   From the Heart

A cloud covered the sun.  The forest appeared gray and dim. The northwest wind gusted. I braced against the chill of the 54 degree air.  It reminded me of January.  Then the cloud floated away. Sunshine returned, warmed my face and illuminated the forest.  I relaxed into the warmth and light.

A wild blackberry cane grew next to me covered with green, serrated, arrowhead shaped leaves and festooned with clusters of five-petaled, snow white blossoms.  The leaves were a full, rich dark green and in the angled sunlight I could see a fine pale down covering that the top of each leaf.  Below the blackberry bushes grew lacy pale green fronds of Hay Scented Ferns.  Beneath the ferns lay last year’s layers of brown and tan leaves, slowly breaking apart, gradually composting into the soil.

An oven bird chattered loudly nearby. Another peewee sang its mournful PEEawee.  In the distance a yellow-billed cuckoo sang a loud cloo, cloo, cloo.  A pair of blue jays called jay, jay, jay.  A woodpecker drilled on a hollow limb, a resonant tat-tat-tat-tat.

I heard the sound of my pencil tracing letters and forming words across the paper of my notebook.  I was reminded of what my friend Bill Johnson said when I took him out for a sit spot.  Writing words around his sensory awareness circle brought him back to first grade, to when he first learned to write, when he first learned to express his inner world on paper. Sitting in silence and writing words to describe his immediate experience recreated that powerful sense of discovery, that feeling of opening a door to a new world of awareness and expression.  He said that as he listened, looked and wrote he could feel the flow of ideas from heart to mind to fingers to paper.

Interval 4  7:10 am   Fragrances

The wind blew steadily now swishing, stirring and whooshing the upper canopy in soft soothing, susurrating sounds. At mid canopy the leaves swayed only a little and near the ground hardly at all.  Last year’s layers of brown and tan leaves covered the ground, but the movement of their decomposition, of their steady return to the earth was too slow for my senses to detect.  Only if I dug my finger down into the leaf litter would I be able to see and feel the progression from dry leaf to loam to forest soil.

I inhaled a fresh woodsy fragrance.  I asked myself what exactly did it smell like.  The only thing that came to mind was the fragrance of freshly washed sheets drying in breezy sunshine.  But I knew that that I was inhaling much more complex smells, the smells of fungi, ferns, leaves, dirt and the volatile oils of growing trees.  My nose was not sensitive enough to discern these specific fragrances, but I recognized the deep sense of well-being that that these nature fragrances created.  I could guess at the immediate and subliminal pathways the fragrances traveled in my brain and could imagine the multiple areas in my cortex, nervous system and immune system that were lighting up.

Interval 5   7:10 am   Progeny

It was good to be sitting next to Big Bob again.  That was the name I had given to the tall, stately sugar maple growing right next to the stone wall.  I liked his opportunism. He had sprouted just inside the wall thus getting a jump on the reforestation of this former pasture and now was probably over a 100 years old, approaching old growth status.  If left alone he might continue to grow for another 200-300 years. 

I liked the many signs of his resilience, the scar on his trunk from a wind ripped limb, a stub from a storm amputated branch, and the gaps and scattered dead branches in his canopy.  And now he was burgeoning skyward into another season of growth, spreading another full green canopy into a clear blue June sky.

Because the leaves were out now I could see a wedge of young sugar maples growing downwind from Bob.  The wedge was wider near Bob and then gradually tapered to a point some fifty yards down wind.  These were his offspring.

Bob was actually a he/she.  Starting around 40 years old he/she produced drooping clusters of yellow-green flowers in the spring.  Some of the flowers were male (pistillate) and some female (staminate).  She/he relied on the blustery spring winds to spread the generous yellowish pollen from the boy flowers to the girl flowers.  Every year clusters of fruit formed, V shaped nutlets with a seed in the middle and delicate wings spread at a 60 degree angle.  In mid to late summer Bob/Bobbi released the nutlets which then helicoptered down to the ground.  Those seed cases and seeds that weren’t gobbled up by birds, squirrels and chipmunks gradually decomposed and in the warmth and moisture of the next spring the maple seeds sprouted.

The leaves of the young maples were down low and directly visible to me.  I pulled up my binoculars and focused on a single leaf.  As I studied it, I noticed its rich green color, its five delicate pointed lobes; a familiar form, the symbol of Canada, the emblem of maple syrup and maple candy. 

The view of the green leaf backlit by soft, angled morning sunshine with its almost perfect form took my breath away.  It seemed more beauty in form and color than was needed.  But I had learned that nature was generous with beauty, spreading more than enough around, perhaps providing a catalyst for growth, evolution and even human pleasure.

Interval 6   7:20 am    Whose Really in Charge?

A catbird flew into a young maple, chattered its jumbled mimicry song and ended with a string of plaintive mew, mew, mew calls.   Two ovenbirds sang, one in front, one to the left.  Two peewees sang, one behind me, one in the distance.   A flicker flapped in, landed at the top of a dead tree, and launched into loud, repetitive kwikkwikkwikkwikkwik song.  The birds, I realized, were constantly on the move; calling, singing, searching for food, shifting, some patrolling their breeding territory; constant, purposeful, life sustaining, life advancing activity.

From the stand of hemlock trees across the stone wall I heard a familiar chick-a-dee-dee.  As I scanned the green boughs searching for a chickadee I noticed that the hemlocks were in growth mode, each branch and twig end covered with a light green tip. The equation for evergreen growth with green tips and branch divisions on every twig must be exponential I thought.

Little saplings grew all around me. What were they?  I snapped a picture of a leaf with my Picture This app and discovered that I was looking at Sweet Birch (Betula lenta) also known as Black Birch or Cherry Birch perhaps due to its mahogany colored bark.  The cluster of birch saplings around me must be from a parent tree upwind.

Glancing around I noticed a cherry tree with a trunk that grew vertically, then angled horizontally for about five feet before continuing skyward.  Right next to it grew two trees intertwined, an ash and a maple locked in an embrace, both striving for the light with their limbs, both seeking nourishment with overlapping roots spread across the forest floor, both determined to fulfill their mission of growth.

The whole forest around me seemed filled with vital growth force even though there were obvious signs of years, even centuries, of human impact.  The old moss and lichen covered stone wall had been painstakingly built by the first settlers.  The lingering traces of former fields and pastures, told of years of agricultural use.  And there was more recent evidence of human impact, sawed down trees, pale stumps drying, growth rings exposed, and piles of confetti like chainsaw debris.

Objectively, based on all of this evidence, humans ruled this realm. But subjectively, I didn’t feel that at all.  The woods pulsed with life force.  The signs of human impact seemed trivial, superficial, as insignificant as drops of water off a duck’s back.

I had fulfilled my promise by returning to the forest during the first week of June.  The forest seemed to be fulfilling an even deeper promise, one that I felt, but one for which I could not find the right words. The best I could do was to describe it as a promise of rebirth, growth, adaption, resilience, beauty, and more.

Epilogue

The hour had gone by too quickly.  I stood up, stretched my limbs, walked over to Big Bob/Bobbi, took a selfie of the two of us, then packed up and walked the long way through the woods back home.

This sit spot session took place on June, 7, 2020 in Dyberry Township, Wayne County, PA.

This blog entry is a follow up to an early post entitled “A Second Chance” posted last January

You can read about additional sit spots, wander walks, and nature adventure in other posts on this blog and in my book, The Stillness of the Living Forest;  A Year of Listening and Learning available at Amazon.com and thru Shanti Arts Publishing.