FRIENDS: Each year at about this time, for several years now, I have shared this little Christmas essay. Last year I included it in my memoir, ‘A Wild Path,’ as well. The essay expresses some of my thoughts, wonderings, and some river-woods wanderings… that seem appropriate to the season. I hope you enjoy it. Feel free to share. Or to
IN CASE YOU WERE WONDERING… Today I was cleaning up my office. Which involves, eventually, dusting. Which I do regularly—at least once a year. And in this dusting portion of the chore, I came upon this large and heavy object, which I picked up and moved and, well, dusted. I don’t pick it up and move it very often, because
SOMETIMES WE FEEL that if just one or two little things would get fixed, or be better at least, or simply go away, (insert name or problem here) then we could be… happy. And it’s certainly true that outside circumstances affect us. But they seldom truly determine–or control–our happiness. A hot cup of coffee on a cold day. A forest
AS THANKSGIVING APPROACHES, many of us are—as always—especially thankful for wild places and wild things. For the peace and perspective to be found there. For clean granite shorelines and clear waters. For the call of the loon. For dark skies where the constellations can still be seen. For the howl of the wolf and the track of the moose. For
WE ARE FORTUNATE to have in our woods a therapist—a mental health professional—named Dr. Woodrow F. Stump. (The F. stands for Forest, of course). He is a slightly older gentleman, a century and more, to be sure. I’ve written of him fairly often in the past, but it’s been a while, what with Life getting in the way and whatnot.
A SIMPLE TRUTH: Life is a profoundly rich and mysterious thing. We are wrapped in enigma, enfolded by nuance, afloat on a sea of grace in a universe of unimaginable beauty, and surrounded by secrets that reach to the end of time. Many of us know this simple truth. We live within this world of unfolding meaning and delicate balance.
ON OUR NORTHWOODS ISLAND, there are little birds that sing their high, pure song from dawn to dusk. And even in the moonlight. They are called white-throated sparrows. They sing because they exist, because it is their nature to say, ‘I am here. This is my home. I am alive, I am here.’ They tell their truth. Sometimes, on this
RAINY LAKE SKIES… ‘Like the bright hair uplifted from the head Of some fierce Maenad, even from the dim verge Of the horizon to the zenith’s height, The locks of the approaching storm…’ Percy Bysshe Shelley
IN ONE of his lovely books about the North Country, my old friend Sigurd Olson wrote about what he called the Ross Light. It is that brief period in the evening as the sun goes down, when everything is illuminated in a lambent glow, hints of amber and gold bringing a timeless warmth to any scene—but especially to North Woods
AT THIS PAST WEEK’S FOREST THERAPY RETREAT, each participant received an embossed journal, and a special earth-toned-ink pen, the better to keep track of earth-toned thoughts and earth-toned feelings. Of which there were many. Here is one from the end of our Forest Therapy Retreat: ‘I hope the vision of so much green space does not leave me for a