A Return

I ventured to the woods the other day. These were the woods wherein my seizure occurred last March.

My mother waited in the car. I had to go alone. I needed the time to be there, process, and allow whatever might arrive.

The season had changed since my last visit. The snowmelt was no longer pooling here and there along the trail, and neither was the chilly bite in the air that remained for some time, even after spring’s arrival. The summer passed without a visit, and I was too frightened to be in the woods — particularly these woods. I was worried a panic attack might trigger a seizure.

When last there, the trees held tiny buds awaiting the perfect, though often invisible, moment to arrive. They had blossomed and were beginning to turn, on the verge of exploding with such vibrant colors as they do so beautifully here in autumn months in New England. Had it indeed been so many months since I was here?

I felt annoyed that the seasons had passed so quickly, but more so that fear had prevented me from returning here — to MY woods. The day was overcast, and I thought it might rain. I was alone with just my thoughts and memories.

After maybe a ½ mile, I rounded the bend in the path and came upon the place where my seizure occurred. Before this, when I walked in, I tried to stroll and be calm, though I could tell my heart rate was increasing steadily; a thin layer of sweat sprouted on my forehead even on this relatively cool day. I nearly turned around and headed back to the car, to the safety it represented, to my mother, and to the security she conveyed.

Ever-present change is more evident in the woods than most anywhere. This may be why I love the woods; perhaps this is why I am in love with the woods. In March, when I last visited them, they exposed themselves openly. The barely present buds left them almost entirely bare, letting the eyes easily pass through the thickets, thin conifers hoping to grow as tall as their brethren, and a few deciduous trees here and there that seemed out of place. Then, in March, just off the footpath, the untrodden snow still lingered, allowing the shadows of the trees to fall upon the ground, shifting with the daylight. These skeletal structures made them appear even more vulnerable. Soon, they will again return to this place of nakedness, letting their leaves blush and climax in such a way I oft wonder if one is worthy enough to witness it. The autumn rains, winds, or the process of the seasons will again reveal the depths into which one can peer… if one is so inclined.

I have not let the woods teach me anything. Instead, I let them teach me everything and then discarded this knowledge. I’m too damn stubborn to accept the reality and pure honesty of it; Nothing. Remains. Constant. Everything. Changes.

It took me several months to return to the woods, to MY woods. I almost forgot their ability to adjust so quickly to change and what message this might hold for me should I be a willing pupil ready to accept the wisdom I desperately seek. I held onto everything cancer had taken away from me; I roped in everything I could think of, from my first seizure in Chicago to the most recent setback, and said, “This is why I can’t return to you!” The woods seemed like the most logical entity I could blame; after all, who else could I point the finger at?

The woods graciously accepted my anger and sadness, my bitterness and tears. They held no hard feelings. When I walked into them and found the location of my seizure, a soft breeze moved through the branches, showing signs of the fast-approaching season. The gentle wind amongst the trees spoke softly, never demanding to know where I had been. Instead, as the wind tossed the branches, they said, “Welcome back, we’ve been waiting for you.”

I lit some sage, pulled the tendrils inward to my being, and then pushed them away to the woods, trying to cleanse something inside me.