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
OF ALL THE TREES in our Church O’ The Pines forest, this White Pine is the champion. Seemingly touching the sky, with a nearly arrow-straight trunk, it is nine-and-a-half feet in circumference at chest height. Estimated age, 181 years. Experts say the percentage of White Pines over 180 years of age is very small, likely less than 1% of the
A RAINY, but green and lovely day, in the Pine Point woods. The kitchen window left open for the comings and goings of Koda-the-Forest-Kitten. The hush of a soft, slow rain falling. The high ‘r-e-e-e-p’ of a great crested flycatcher from a distant tree-top. The brilliant notes of a Baltimore oriole, the scarlet notes of Sparky-the-Cardinal. The far-off calling of
LET US WANDER THROUGH THE FOREST, AND LISTEN TO THE STORIES THE PINES WHISPER, AND SEEK THE WISE COUNSEL OF BIRDS AND WILDFLOWERS… Dear Friends: It has been a little while since I have posted about our 2025 ‘Forest Therapy Retreats.’ But they remain on track, and I am greatly looking forward to them! The first: May 29–June 1. The
THE STRANGEST THING happens here at our bird feeding operation at the little cabin-in-the-woods. Sometimes—as this morning—when it is very cold—no one is here. I go out, in all my impedimenta, with seeds and corn and sunflower hearts and water, and brave the beastly cold, and… nothing. And I get a little worried. For more often when I go out
THERE’S NOTHING like the smell of a forest on a misty, foggy day. Be it the Coast Redwoods or the Olympic Peninsula or the humble Church O’ The Pines. It’s a fragrance that reaches inside of you and reminds you that you are a part of everything and everything is a part of you. On a gray, monochrome day, not
IN THE FOREST, some things glow. Even on a cloudy, drizzly evening, half an hour before dark, they glow. Not so much from the sunlight, of which there is little, but somehow from within. A red maple Kathy and I planted twenty years ago. A redbud tree like the one my grandad and I planted and watered so faithfully, one