Walk in the Woods (#51)

Walking along the snowy road, I notice a child's playground with a zipline beckoning. I overcome my shyness and the voices telling me I'll look dumb - it's for kids - what if I fall - what will people think - is it allowed - I don't really want to - what if? - I climb onto the wobbly seat, secure my camera in my pocket, back up to get placed right, and let myself go. I can't stop - I shriek with delight from the fun of it. I stop safely and pull the seat back to the start. Again. Again. I feel the cold air rush into my squinched eyes as my body rushes uncontrolled, uncontrollable through space.

Finally, unsated but full of joy, I get off the seat, adjust my snow pants, and walk on. There's a bright wide, well-trodden road, but of course I choose the narrow path that enters the woods and contains a hint of mystery. The Icelandic woods with their young fir trees and little undergrowth feel so different from the patch of woods by my house with its 100-year-old oaks, towering birches, scraggly holly trees and abundant blueberries, creeping cedar, and ferns underneath. Our woods are a virtual jungle with ticks, opossums, raccoons, mice, chimpmunks, deer, stray cats, hawks, crows, and owls populating the land as the swaying giants menacingly threaten to fall on our home yet again.

I feel safer in the sturdy Iceland woods where trees are no taller than houses and underbrush is soft fallen fir needles. I know they need trees and are re-planting their land, but I most love the vastness their absence provides.

In the woods, I walk on soft muffled paths. I come upon a clearing where someone has built a gazebo and a swing, so inviting, so friendly.


Too chilly to swing, I continue on, meeting no one, until my yearning to see the sky overcomes my need to be cossetted in this dark quiet space. I climb a bright hill to a point where a large wooden creature greets me. I stand nose to nose, examining the grains of wood in its massive eyes. I ask it to share its wisdom which I absorb wordlessly.

Satisfied, I notice a clearing on the next hill and tromp through the ankle-deep snow to reach it.
















Poles of varying heights rise from the ground, apparently with purpose. I walk among them, count, mentally measure, and decide it's an Icelandic Stonehenge - sundial, season-marker, year-tally-er. I photograph it with the sun shining through it and striking it. I calculate the time: 11:30 or thereabouts. There's no daylight savings time in Iceland so no chance it's an hour later or earlier.

I begin to feel hungry so I turn away from the sundial and head elsewhere.















My wanderings lead me to a fallow field and a fence, easily breechable. A greenhouse complex is on the other side, huge hoses, dried decaying plant matter, steamy but empty greenhouses. I worry I'll be chased away, but I see no one as I traipse along the gravel paths over pipes and hoses, around piles and barrels, until I find the forest path again.

I hear before I see toddlers playing in another playground as their parents chat. I walk by, head ducked, wanting to be invisible. Please don't interrupt my solitude, my communion with Nature, my attempts to find the glorious.

The snow plow is hard at work when I return to my car but has thankfully left me space to leave. I pull out of the lot and consider where to turn - down the lane towards the greenhouses or back to the road from whence I came? I am filled with gratitude to have such a choice - no obligations calling me back, just freedom giving me any option I could dream up.

I feel a faint whiff of the grief and loneliness of the night before. It drifts across my consciousness like a cloud on a breezy day. As it disperses, I am surprised to notice that in its wake is joy. Freedom. Solidity. Courage. Contentment. Choice.

Once on the road, I turn away from town, ready to explore, trusting that all I need to know will be revealed.