I’m a foresty kind of person.
You know what I mean.
Thick undergrowth underfoot, littered with roots and leaves. The very low incessant humming and buzzing of all the tiny lives that live there: beetles tapping on wood, spiders spinning their homes, constructing new identities everyday. The trees overhead, growing together, clustering branches and foliage, soaking up the sun, spilling pools of sunshine on the forest floor.
There’s a calm in the heart of a forest, that just can’t be found anywhere else. The beach has roaring waves and squabbling sun burnt swimmers and mountains have that whole altitude problem; higher levels mean difficulty breathing. Of course one could argue that forests can have man eating lions or tigers or some very violent species of hummingbird…But if you can find a harmless forest, a dormant one, you’re in luck.
And of course I say dormant and not dead because all of us in some way have a dormant streak in us. We have roots and branches and all the clutter that we haven’t sorted out yet. And then we may or may not have a canopy on our hearts: do you allow the sunshine to reach you?
Either way, a forest is magic I do believe.
Unless you’re in a forest at night. Alone. In the rain. Terrified.
Then its just another nail in your potential coffin.