Woods.

Woods are such compelling things, aren’t they? So still and yet so full of life, from tangled floor to airy canopy. I’ve thought so since early childhood. There was an old wildwood behind the house I lived in from age 1-11 and I used to walk in it often, even though I wasn’t supposed to because it was private property. It’s the setting for the first chapter of Odyssey, and it gets a mention in one of the short stories as well. And that brings me to my point.

The older I get, the more it’s the mystery of woods I find compelling. There’s a small one about half a mile along Church Lane, and every time I walk past the place it arrests my attention. It’s doing so stronger than ever these days. I stand and look between the trees expecting to see something emerge, something we humans don’t care to admit a belief in. There’s an energy flowing out of it that’s almost palpable, and it seems to be saying ‘There’s something here that you can’t see, not because it’s small or hiding, but because you’re not attuned yet.’

And so I keep looking. I know I might never see it, and I know it might not even be there. But maybe...