On an unseasonably warm weekend, my husband and I “went to the trees” by hauling our little teardrop camper to a favorite state park. Situated on a bluff overlooking a lake, I read a book next to a crackling fire while geese honked to each other as they flew overhead. It’s that sweet spot between winter and spring when the temperature fluctuates throughout the day, making it necessary for casual but constant wardrobe changes: winter coat in the chilly early morning, then just a sweatshirt as the sun rises in the sky; for a brief window of time at lunch, I daringly sport short sleeves before a shiver goes through me. I think better of it and put the sweatshirt on again, but this time with the zipper open.
The geese walk on the lake with a swagger I could never muster, especially since the ice is becoming transparent and brittle in spots.
My dog is in his happy place. He is sleeping beside me on the grass, dreaming, I imagine, of chasing an army of bunnies and squirrels. His paws flutter.
The need to “head to the trees” rises up in me like a hunger that can’t be ignored. I get sips of serenity from a neighborhood walk or a picnic at a city park, but those are only temporary until I can truly escape into the wide open, away from the daily assault on my five senses.
A recent article in Psyche magazine, “In the Bustle of the City, We Need More Pockets of Serenity,” Zsanett Ritli talks about ways calm can be designed or engineered in a cityscape that doesn’t have open space to spare. Ritli found her pocket of serenity unexpectedly in a Manhattan art gallery:
“Gradually, I noticed my breathing changing, and I felt a sense of stillness arrive as if it had been waiting for me behind a door. It seemed the room itself had quietly lowered the volume of my nervous system,” she writes.
Later, we throw more wood on the fire as the sky becomes an intense blue-black, with millions of pinpricks that let the starlight peek through. The geese have quieted down, but now we hear the frenzied howling of coyotes, calling to each other.
I sigh and look over at my husband in the firelight.
“I’m tired,” I say.
As soon as the words leave my mouth, I sit up a little straighter.
“No, scratch that,” I say. “I’m not tired. I’m relaxed.”
Weariness and relaxation can feel similar, but they are not the same. In the quiet moments among the trees, I imagine the battery in my soul returning to its 100% level. I am awake, and I don’t want to go to sleep. Most days, sleep is an escape from the demands of daily life. Here, the trees have no demands. I can simply be, without explanations or effort. Slicing my attention into tiny bits to be parceled out to a hungry world, day after day, is what makes me tired. The trees, the geese, the coyotes, and the sizzling fire are something else entirely, and I don’t want to miss any of it.
