This wasn’t my first time walking along the Sassafras Trail in my hometown of Amsterdam, NY in the fall. For some reason, I usually find myself making the trek at this time of the year, though I’ve made promises to return in the spring when the leaves are more chartreuse than golden. Fall is often when I find myself drawn into the woods – one last chance at mingling with whatever life remains out and about (and there is lots, as evidenced by the many stands of ferns, the clusters of asters in full bloom, and great swaths of horsetail reed enjoying the damp conditions by the stream).
The light was different on this day, brighter and warmer than it was on my previous visit in the fall. The further down the path I went, the dimmer it got, but it was early enough in the afternoon that the sun always maintained its touch on the trees.
It helped that the leaves were so bright and brilliant, adding to the illumination and setting the forest aflame. This was a soothing fire, a calm and contemplative burning that felt like a balm upon the soul. Beneath my feet, the leaf-laden forest floor was spongy and soft, lending further comfort to the walk.
Gradually meandering downward, the path led to a stream bed, sunken lower into the earth. As the forest rose around me, there was an even more hushed aspect to this space. Every step and snap of a stick resounded through the air, and the sounds of the stream water felt wondrously amplified. There was occasionally the cry of a bird, and at one point a distinctive knocking, jarring at first, until I discovered the origin was a woodpecker coaxing its dinner out of a tree.
More life revealed itself as my eyes adjusted to the subtlety of the woods. Mosses and mushrooms made their homes between the reaching roots of tree trunks, lichens lined fallen branches and stones, and ferns dangled their lacy fronds with delicate grace and elegance. The forest was refined in its reserved way.
Midway on this journey, as I stopped to listen to the gurgling stream and watch the water flow, it struck me that this was its form of meditation, and I decided to try my daily practice right there and then. It was a bit of a mixed bag – going into deep breathing while moving along an undulating forest path does not quite make for easy meditation, but I was able to be momentarily mindful of where I was and what I was experiencing, and that was a start.
It’s best not to force such a thing, and my slow and thoughtful walk was meditative in its own way without needing to formalize the process. A walk in the woods has always been a cathartic experience for me, going back to the many afternoons in my childhood when I would come home from school and rush into the little stretch of forest behind our house, getting almost lost for hours until it was time for dinner, until the light drained from the sky and the woods felt suddenly dangerous. I was keenly aware of that switch, because it came on quickly, and if you were too deep into the forest the walk back could instantly be fraught with fear.
No such fear gripped me on this day, as the sun’s light never wavered. I took my time coming back up along the trail, gazing upward every few steps to witness the lofty wonder of the trees in all their colorful sorcery. Their magic will manifest itself differently in just a few weeks, when they will rise bare against the stark sky – a magic that will have to carry them through the winter.
The shifting of the seasons was brought to mind as I came upon this surprising re-bloom of a witch hazel tree. It hung in the air at eye level like some canary-hued spider, or a yellow star confirming my direction, and I took it as a symbol of hope that spring would return. Normally witch hazel is the first bloom to appear after winter, often bravely unfurling its wrinkled beauty in the midst of late-season snowfall. Seeing it here now was a way of tying such disparate-seeming times together, a little cry of hope as some seasonal Pandora’s box closed itself tightly in preparation for the upcoming winter.
