As I edged the car door open six crows flew in suddenly, circled around a tall tree in the dim pre-dawn light, cawed loudly and continuously, landed in the gray skeletal branches, jumped back in the air, and landed again.  I cautiously opened the door the rest of the way and stepped out. The crows fell silent and perched peacefully in the branches.

Quite a greeting I thought as shouldered my gear preparing to walk through the woods to my home sit spot along the shoreline of Prompton Lake.  Then a strange idea came to mind. The crows were scolding me for being away too long. When they saw that I was heading to my sit spot they calmed down.

What a ridiculous thought!   A thought, I reasoned, that was probably more a projection of my own guilt, my own feelings of omission for not visiting that site in the woods that had so rejuvenated me during the weekly visits of my Forest Stillness year.  Or was it ridiculous?  Maybe nature does speak to us in various voices.

I took a quick detour from the parking lot down to the shoreline to check out Prompton Lake. A layer of recently formed slush-ice covered most of the lake locking the normally moving water into frozen stillness.  Above the far shoreline the trunks and branches of the trees gradually took form in the early morning light. 

Heading toward the West Shore Trail I noticed motor memory taking over, my feet guided me on to the trail and through the woods. Minutes later, after stone-stepping across the softly flowing seep, my feet again knew exactly where to turn off the trail, knew the way through the woods to the little peninsula.  I walked past huge stones rocks dusted with snow, walked right by a long-ago discarded tire, a discordant image that I remembered well. The tire was sunk a little deeper in the ground and covered a little more with layers of leaf litter, but still there.  Sadly, I realized that it takes a long, long time for a tire to compost and return to the earth.

The Process

I set up my camp stool under the familiar big black cherry tree, sat down, pulled out my notebook, drew a circle for my first 10 minute observation interval, and began to look, listen, and jot down notes.

My vision jumped from tree to tree, out to the lake, and down to the ground. My hearing chased every sound, the distant whoosh of traffic along US Route 6, the roar of a pickup truck heading north on Creek Road and the whoosh of a jetliner flying high above.  All of these human-made sounds annoyed me.  Could I ever find a place free from the sounds of traffic, free from human caused noise?

I heard a few birds; the distant honking of Canada geese, a blue jay calling a tinny keedoo, keedoo, a red-bellied woodpecker uttering a staccato “chur, chur, chur.”  I scanned the woods but couldn’t catch a glimpse of any birds which felt disappointing and frustrating.

Then I remembered the steps to take when conducting a sit spot, the systematic steps of sensory awareness.  I took three deep breaths, relaxed my shoulders, and pictured myself at the center of a circle of sights, sounds and sensations.  I began to just listen, look, and feel, to simply be in the moment without reacting.

Gradually I reentered that familiar state of forest mindfulness that I had discovered during my year of weekly visits.  Nature around me began to seem coherent.  I noticed the decorative white icing of snow topping the fallen trees that lay across the forest floor, noticed the verdant greens of the mosses growing at the base of the trees, and noticed the colonies of green and blue lichen that spread upon the tree trunks.  Glancing up I saw the symmetrical patterned swirls of gray-black tree branches, the spreading fractals of nature against a pale blue sky.

The bird songs began to blend into a winter morning chorus; the back and forth jay, jay, jay of blue jays, the soft click-click-click of a flock of foraging dark-eyed juncos, and the distant, hoarse, far-carrying “cr-r-ruck, cr-r-uck” of s raven. Nearby, I heard the faint drip, drip of melting snow falling from the long angled branch of the black cherry tree.

I thought there was no wind, but when I looked down I saw a single brown blade of grass sway ever so gently back and forth.  Then I felt a faint breeze touch my cheek, felt the full and invigorating freshness of forest air caressing my skin.  I inhaled the fragrance of earth and composting leaves and snow and lake water.

The Three

On this grey morning I wasn’t expecting to see a colorful sunrise, but decided to check.  Turning around to the south-east I was surprised to see a splash of bright gold surrounded by an aura of pale yellow.  I remembered then what I had learned during my year of stillness; the sunrise always provides a color show, sometimes spectacular and multicolored, and sometimes like today, subtle with luminous tones of bright gold and pastel yellow on a vast grey-blue canvas.

Looking back at the woods ahead of me I saw the first beams of sunlight touching the tops of the nearby trees.  I felt the first rays of sun-light and sun-warmth touch my neck and shoulders.  I felt the daily gift of renewal fill my heart.

The chorus of a song by the bluegrass group Flatt Lonesome came to mind:

                                    “In the morning there is joy,

                                     In the morning there is peace,

                                     In the morning all things are brand new.”

I looked over the lake and spotted a seagull in flight, slender, graceful, long, angled wings steadily and effortlessly stroking the air.  It was ring-billed gull and it looked like it could fly forever.  Glancing to the shoreline I noticed bright red clusters of Common Winterberry, splashes of color on a gray morning.

In my mind, turned into a blank palette by these views of beauty, a thought emerged, a thought of the three Platonic properties of being—the good, the beautiful, and the true.  I reflected that the true could be considered the realm of the intellect, of science and philosophy, a realm only realized through a rigorous search.  The good, the realm of the conscience, of the mind and heart, requires a constant and arduous struggle to find the right path amidst the constantly shifting demands and circumstances of life. 

The beautiful was the realm of the senses and the heart.  In this moment surrounded as I was by the beauty of nature; it seemed the most accessible of the three.  Perhaps the inspiration and encouragement offered by the ever-present beauty of nature might energize the pursuit of the good and true. 

Forty Minutes

I learned about conducting a sit spot in Jon Young’s book, What the Robin Know; How Birds Reveal the Secrets of the Natural World.  I remembered and subsequently found true his admonition that it usually takes forty minutes of sitting still for the birds and animals to settle down, for the sitter to calm down and blend in, and for the sitter to really begin to see.

Did I still have to pay this forty minute price before nature might reveal any gifts?  I checked my watch.  Forty minutes had elapsed.

I heard distant squeaks and chirps drawing closer.  Scanning the woods I spotted a little band of five chickadees flitting through the forest.  Other than the two seagulls these were the first birds I had seen.  The little gray, black and white birds came closer, fluttered in, perched on nearby branches, chattered back and forth, noticed me, and spread the news with a few cheerful chick-a-dee-dee calls.

Looking ahead into the woods I saw an impressivley large bird flying through the trees, dipping up and down, a pileated woodpecker.  Two crows flew right overhead so near that I could hear their wing beats.  The loud clear descending kee-yer, kee-yer, kee-yer of a red-shouldered hawk carried through the morning air. 

Then, I was surprised to hear a raspy, quack, quack, quack from the lake behind me, a hen mallard.  I turned, spotted a patch of open water near the far shoreline and scanned with my binoculars.  No mallard, but I did spot a solitary female common merganser, crested rufous head and long orange saw bill, carving a V as it paddled across the still cold water.  The ducks, resilient and adaptable, lingered on the lake as long as there was open water.

I turned and gazed back into the woods.  Something small and tan was moving. A leaf floating down?  No, it was moving up and down and back and forth. I stared steadily and then was stunned to realize it was a moth.  I followed its flight and watched it land on the tan and brown leaf litter where it immediately blended in. 

This was, I learned later, a winter moth, a species that emerges in November and December.  Seconds later another moth took flight, flapped delicately through the woods, and landed on a patch of snow.

The forty minute wait had been worthwhile. I could see, hear and feel that the winter woods were alive with surprises and lessons, with secrets revealed, with gifts for the mind and heart.

Changes

My hour was up.  I grabbed my camera, stood up, stretched, and strolled around to explore the peninsula.  I discovered a white pine seedling, just inches tall, tan, tiny growth buds at the top above a spray of delicate long green needles.  Thirty feet away I found a hemlock sapling, almost two feet tall, a swirl of dense, dark-green, short-needled branches.

Both of these little trees were new to the peninsula.  They represented the natural process of forest succession; the gradual return of the pines and hemlocks that had in precolonial times blanketed this portion of Pennsylvania—William Penn’s Forest.  No one had planted these trees but they were there, the seeds spread by the wind, birds, squirrels and chipmunks.

I noticed a patch of green at my feet; tiny plants that looked like petite Christmas trees. They were Flat-branched Tree-Clubmoss, more commonly known as Princess Pine; plants that had been overharvested in the past to use for holiday decorations and that were now legally protected.  Princess Pine is a plant of the shady mature forest.

Nearby, I discovered a row of light green, lacy-leafed plants.  These were Fan Clubmoss, also known as Groundcedar as the foliage looks very much like familiar cedar boughs. This is another plant that finds its way into returning forests and over times creates larges patches of green that are pleasing to the eye in winter.

I saw an ash tree that looked as if it had a collar of green around the base of the trunk. I walked closer and studied the dense delicate fern like tendrils.  A quick check with my Picture This app informed me that I was gazing at Delicate Fern Moss aptly described as “delicate moss that resembles an assortment of tiny ferns.”  I read further that birds use it for nesting material and small animals use if for protective cover.  This fern moss is said to symbolize fascination, sincerity, and magic.

Five new plants were growing on the little peninsula, plants that were part of a process of natural progression and succession.  No human hand had sown these plants.  They all found their timely way to this ‘just-right” setting, to the conditions they required. 

I headed back through the woods alongside an old stone wall, a moss-covered remnant of a former farm field. Visions of a hot breakfast of coffee, omelette, and toast came to mind for I had become chilled during my hour of sitting still.  As I walked I reflected on the five new plants I had seen.   Something about the appearance or perhaps the reappearance of these plants infused me with a sense of hope, a feeling I carried with me as I stepped along the trail.

This Sit Spot was conducted on December 2, 2021 at Prompton State Park.  You can read about more sit spots and wander walks in this blog and in my book, The Stillness of the Living Forest: A Year of Listening and Learning available through Amazon.com and Shanti Arts Publications.

The Stillness of the Living Forest: A Year of Listening and Learning: Harvey, John: 9781947067592: Amazon.com: Books

The Stillness of the Living Forest, John Harvey (shantiarts.co)

References;

What the Robin Knows:  How Birds Reveal the Secrets of the Natural World by Jon Young.  Houghton-Miflin Harcourt, 2012.

In the Morning written by Kelsi Hargill on Runaway Train by Flatt Lonesome. Mountain Home Music Company, 2015