When trees blow in the wind; the noise as they hit each other is loud,
Louder than expected. When I see the moss covering the floor, I want to bend down and touch it, to enfold myself and unfold myself in it.The moss stirs the primal, the sensual, the tactile.

I want to be the land: I want to be the trees swaying the bent branches, the soft moss. I want to be the moist dirt, here squishy, there cracked and hard. I want to be the water kissing the shores and I want to be the shore, receiving a caress.

I want to be the felled tree, the rotting tree, the rotted tree. Feeding the forest floor as I de-compose- fall apart, break a part. I want to be the ready-to-fall tree, chewed, partially, by a beaver. Waiting for thebreezethegustthebite, that will lay me down. I want to be the bark-stripped, bark stripping, tree commanding the path, with my collapse. For me, they reroute people. Sideways, I am danger.

I want to be the hollows and the clearings and the groves: the open spaces, the gathering spaces. The silent spaces. The space you can see across. I want to be the bramble, snaking around the tree and the bushes, thickening with time, with patience, with growth. I want to be the vines, adaptable- vine or branch?And the boulder. The resting spot of boulder: solid, massive. Unmoving. Creviced and curved. Proving solace and a moment of respite.

I want to be the poison oak, catching a ride alongside the tree. I want to be the blossoms, Flirting with the sun. Opening bit by bit, moved by the warmth, the wind. Cajoled by the life force inside, saying to me, “the time is now. Show all your beauty.” I want to be the cove, where magic unfurls and there is safety in hiddenness, in withdrawal, in non-visibility.

If I can’t walk barefoot in the woods, how can I follow any desire that is “too” ?

I want to be the birds, gliding on the currents, wings opened, feeling the elements all around my being. I want to be the logs, halfway submerged in the water. Anchored in the muck, the ooze and yet surrounded by water by motion and covered by air and breeze. Water licking me, embracing me, wearing down my edges, my grooves, my knobs. ‘Til I am smooth and silken or I am crumbly and become one with the land around me.

When did we become tame, contained and restrained, afraid of spilling out of our boundaries, out of our flesh. Cushioned and protected, lumbering about in our shoes, our cars, our iphones? When did we forget, but more importantly, what do we choose now that we remember?