My destination was a simple gray bench set atop an old sand dune alongside a nature trail in Anastasia State Park. When I had hiked by the bench it struck me as a good location for a sit spot.  It was convenient, only a five minute walk from my campsite, and the top of the dune provided a good vantage point to gaze into the maritime forest overstory and understory.  And perhaps most importantly, the bench had a good feel to it, a kind of forest Feng Sui.

I arrived ten minutes before sunrise, sat down and settled in. In the dim pre- dawn light wispy strands of Spanish moss hung from the spreading branches of a live oak, a view that called out “exotic setting.”  But I reflected that I was looking at more than the exotic.   Here, in this maritime forest the “elementals” were different. 

I had learned about the term “elementals” in Nan Shepherd’s nature writing gem, The Living Mountain, where she brought to life the essence of the Cairngorm Mountains of Scotland.  After letting go of her initial urge to conquer summits, she began to wander through the terrain and to gradually understand, know, name, sense, feel, and ultimately immerse herself in the unique constellations of light, water, earth, skies, sounds and smells that made up the spirit of her beloved Scottish mountains.  She began to see the elemental forces that created and were expressed in the Cairngorms.

I wondered if I might, in the short time span of an hour that I had set aside, be able to grasp the elementals of this maritime forest.

Earth                                                  6:38 am

I shifted into sensory awareness by tuning in to the sounds around me.  The morning bird chorus was in full swing.   A tufted titmouse whistled a clear cheeva, cheeva, cheeva.  A cardinal seemed to be warming up its voice with a series of hesitant whit, whit, whit calls before launching into a clear birdy, birdy, birdy song.  A blue jay cried jay, jay, jay.  In the distance two crows cawed back and forth, caw-caw, caw-caw.  Further away I picked up on the sound of the ocean surf steadily shump, shump, shumping onto the sandy shore.

I looked down at my sandals resting on coarse tan sand sprinkled with flecks of white and brown sea shells fragments.  I pushed my sandals against the ground and felt that the sandy soil was solid and firmly packed atop this long winding twenty foot high dune.  Millions if not billions of finely ground sand grains had been shaped into this formation by the ceaseless action of the wind and waves of an ancient ocean.

Slipping off my sandals I pressed my bare feet against the cold sandy soil. For a boy who grew up digging in the soft, black-brown loamy earth of southeastern Wisconsin this dense, tan, hard packed sand felt very different.

Time                                                               6:48 am

Against the distant background of surf sounds I noticed that when the wind shifted or let up, I could also hear the rush of morning traffic along nearby highway A1A.  Then another sound arose, the faint steady chuffing of a train rolling along steel tracks punctuated by periodic wails of a whistle.

Listening to all three sounds I thought about how the traffic and train were new sounds from the last hundred years while the steady pounding of the surf was an ancient sound, a sound that once surrounded these dunes when the waves lapped nearby, centuries back when the dunes were near the shoreline, back when these fragile shifting sands barely held the tentative growth of sea oats and beach beauties.

The ocean had receded, its shore now a good half mile away. And slowly, gradually, steadily the fragile dunes grew firmer as yaupons, saw palmettos, redbays, Carolina cherry laurels and live oaks colonized and flourished. 

I reflected on how my time consciousness was defined by the human lifespan linked to the modern sounds of traffic and trains.   But this evolving maritime forest atop these ancient sand dunes spoke of much, much longer cycles of time and growth and change. 

Surprisingly, I didn’t feel distressed by the comparative brevity of my human life span. Instead I felt comforted by a sense of communion with the longer and grander cycles of time and growth that surrounded me, the temporal elementals that formed this maritime forest.

Invisibility                                                       6:58 am

I had been sitting stock still for twenty minute listening to the morning bird chorus climb toward a crescendo.  The birds came closer seemingly more concerned with their morning territorial singing and feeding than with any worries about my presence.  I had started to blend in, to become invisible.  I knew this was not an invisibility of stealth and camouflage, but a state created by heart and mind. I was at peace, grateful and appreciative to be out in nature at daybreak.  I held an attitude of non-predatory harmlessness that the ever vigilant birds must have recognized.

Nearby I heard a faint soft chit, chit and caught a flash of movement in the branches overhead.  Slowly I tilted my head back, scanned and caught sight of a warbler fliting through the branches, skimming and gleaning for insects, eating hungrily after its night’s fast.  I slowly brought up my binoculars and when the bird perched on a twig for a few seconds I caught a full view of a stunning, bright yellow throat, black cheeks, gray back and white wing bars. It was a yellow-throated warbler, a southern warbler that winters in Florida, a life bird for me.

Suddenly, right in front of me a male cardinal flew in, landed and launched into loud, resonant, whistled clear, clear, clear calls followed by a rich melodious string of purty, purty, purty, purty notes.   I felt as if this cardinal had granted me a special audience to witness its brilliant plumage and hear its rich song and had gifted me one of those moments of transcendent beauty that made the long minutes and hours of forest sitting so worthwhile and so nourishing to the soul.

Cycles                                                             7:08 am

The first direct rays of sunshine touched the top of the trees bringing the colors to life; the light green of the sabal palm fronds, the darker green of the live oak leaves, the back drop of a pale blue sky.  A breeze stirred, too faint for me to feel on my cheek, but enough to set a little leaf quivering and to sway a strand of Spanish moss. 

The wind also brought a whiff of salt air, the dry smell of dry sand, and the faint tangy fragrance of a nearby red juniper.

Above me a palm warbler trilled a dry zhe-zhe-zhe-zhe-zhe -zhe.   A Carolina wren flitted into a redbay bush and I heard it cycle through three versions of its zippy song; first a taku, taku, taku, then a cheeka, cheeka, cheeka, and finally the more standard tea-kettle, tea-kettle, tea-kettle.  I was intrigued by these three different renditions.  Was it practice, amusement, or just another expression of the diversity of nature?

A puff of wind loosened leaves of a live oak and I watched the tiny leaves flutter down.  Live oaks lose their leaves in spring just as new leaves are sprouting.  In front of me I saw new leaves sprouting from the tip of a branch of Carolina cherry laurel, reddish russet tendrils unfolding into new spring time growth months before such new life would occur back home.

On an angled branch of a live oak resurrections ferns flourished into full lacy green growth having been brought back to life by a recent rainfall. Before the rain the ferns had been withering. 

In this sunny southern forest the elemental cycles of life and growth, of death and resurrection had different timings and patterns.

Sustaining                                                                   7:18 am

The sandy soil was littered with dried leaves from the live oaks and yaupons.  Withered stalks from saw palmettos lay around each stem.  No one entered these woods with a yard rake or leaf blower.  The leaves covered the ground protecting the soil from the drying sun and eroding rain.  Beneath the leaves another world lived and worked; bacteria, fungi, insects and earthworms breaking the leaves down, enrichening the soil and enhancing its capacity to hold moisture.

Life, death and decay steadily nourished the soil. This forest sustained itself.

Light                                                                           7:28 am

I watched the morning sunlight slowly descend from the tree tops and more fully illuminate the forest. I could almost feel the warmth of the sunshine drawing closer.  Gazing ahead I sensed that the light in this forest had a unique quality.  The overstory of live oaks was more open allowing sunlight to filter more generously down which in turn allowed a lusher understory to flourish.  The understory with its hanging strands of moss and large jagged saw palmetto leaves created a different play of light and shadow, a difference that attracted my attention and created a surprising scintilla of uneasiness.

I thought that each of us must have a baseline for the play of light, a baseline acquired from the environment we grow up in, a baseline that speaks of home and comfort.  For me having grown up in Wisconsin and lived in Pennsylvania—yes William Penn’s woods— my baseline was the deciduous forest of ash, cherry, maple, hickory and oak, trees that form a thick summer canopy that shades all below.

I breathed evenly to address my unease, to try to acclimate to, accept and embrace this different elemental play of light.  I looked at the jagged shadows of the saw palmettos traced across the sandy soil.  When the filtered sunlight finally touched and warmed my neck, and shoulders, I inhaled deeply and took in.  With time this environment could feel like home.

Epilogue

Another hour of forest stillness had flown by. I spotted a woman walking a dog coming toward me.  I heard voices coming closer from the other direction.

As I packed up my gear I reflected that maybe I had learned a few things about the unique elementals of these ancient dunes and the maritime forest they supported. Now, it was time to tend to my own elementals, to return to my campsite for a breakfast of yogurt, muesli and fresh fruit, and to sit in the softly filtered sunlight beneath the spreading branches of a live oak and to sip a cup of hot, freshly ground, French press brewed coffee and soak in more of these forest elementals.

This sit spot took place on March 4, 2021 on the Ancient Dunes Trail at Anastasia State Park near Saint Augustine, Florida.  You can read about more sit spots and nature reflections on this blog and in my book The Stillness of the Living Forest: A Year of Listening and Learning available on Amazon and through Shanti Art Publishing.