Looking Closer, by Paige Lewis

           It’s incredible how systems work themselves out. Whether those systems are biological—the deer’s one of a kind digestive system, or the Carolina chickadee’s unique ways in which it keeps itself warm—social—how friends move in and out of your life for no apparent reason, yet the new friendships always astound you with their richness—or other—how everything ends up falling perfectly into place, regardless of how much time or how much hardship it takes to get there. As I get older and meet new, beautiful people; travel and explore diverse cities and endless forests, I learn more and more the importance in appreciating life’s simplest, and most amazing pleasures.

As I sit in my spot today, after spending the weekend in Boston with my friends (and theirs) from my recent semester-long study abroad program, I reflect on how genuinely lucky I am to have met such delightful people, at such a time in my life when I am able to be flexible and pick up and travel wherever I want to. Thinking about this flexibility reminded me of a passage of “The Forest Unseen” I had read on the bus early Friday morning on my way up to Boston from Philadelphia. “In moderate winds, leaves bend back and flutter. As the wind’s force increases, leaves change their behavior and absorb a portion of the wind’s strength, using it to furl into a defensive posture…As the wind abates, the leaves spring back unrolling into sails again” (95). Like the wind, life blows hardships, busy schedules, and chaos our way. However, while in those times we protect ourselves against the wind, they pass and we unfurl and grow back into a better version of our previous selves. During this time of growth and unfurl, I can feel myself morphing into something better than I was before: A more adventurous person, unafraid of taking opportunity and going for it…and not allowing another gust of strong wind to hold me back. While the winds are inevitable, the positive change that is born from that hardship is the most beautiful product.

Just like in the Tennessee forest, the wind is blowing hard today, rattling the leaves and blowing them across the open field. It’s cold today, like every other day it seems like, despite it now being spring. Tomorrow it’s supposed to snow again, and I can’t help feel that this season will never loosen its grip. After the long and tiring weekend, I decide to sit on the ground and take a more detailed look at what I normally tread over. The ground feels surprisingly soft for such a cold day, and I study the square foot directly in front of me. Covering the ground almost entirely lay a large amount of acorn caps—some broken, and some still attached to brown, supple acorns. Occasional twigs lay in undeterminable patterns, resembling a game of pick-up sticks. The grass is brown but the new green growth shoots up the middle, splitting the dull, brown leaves.

Unlike the Tennessee forest, there’s not much happening in this square foot of ground. I can’t help but feel a little bored, and my eyes burn from tiredness. My eyes abandon my spot, searching the landscape for something that will hold my fleeting interest. To my left a little ways away, I see a large brown blob. Curious, my eyes remain glued. After a couple minutes, it moves, and I spot a head. It’s a groundhog. After a few minutes more, it positions itself to parallel my exact stance. Head forward, bottom on the ground, staring and unmoving. And then it disappears into the ground, it’s big bottom protruding from the ground and then disappearing in one swift movement. So that’s that.

As I get up to leave, a strong smell of cedar overcomes me. It reminds me of times at my cabin in Northern Pennsylvania, and grounds me again. Those times as a child in the woods were simpler. But as I look around me, I watch the trees sway in the wind. Their leaves may be bracing the attack, but I can promise you trees, let the wind die down. It will, and it’s great. There are good things coming.

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