I was thinking about the ancient way of the forest, back — 800 years ago, when the seedlings were new; and the roads, that made their way there, they simply can’t survive — much as they try, they slowly disappear.

The roots ruffle their borders, the mycelia of the fungi granulate their asphalt and the needles that fall dissolve the distinguishment between the idea of path and the meandering clearing.

Walking back there, further and further, nestled into the mountains, the mist calls, the river runs its long chorus and you realize that you’re back at the center of the earth, when things are still beginning. They’re beginning, just as they’ve done. Trees, nearly 1000 years old look down on seedlings that are just thinking about the burgeoning of their lives. Nearby, another stands tall at 80 years, near another — 250 years. A young maple speaks of 10 years of growing, while a neighboring giant shows leaves that are more than one foot in diameter.

Rain falls, nurturing happens, birds are quieter in the center of the sacred place. Going back there, you forget where you are, because you’re back where you’re supposed to be.

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