Slow, silent steps and long, deliberate blinks. My bare feet sink into the lush green moss that coats the forest floor. All around me, enormous trees stretch to the heavens, blocking out the evening sun and leaving me in cool shadows. Despite its wildness, the forest doesn't feel dirty. All around me life is flourishing in the purest way possible, everything from the oldest tree to the tiniest ant growing in perfect harmony.
As I walk, a breeze shuffles the fabric of my white dress where it bunches at my knees, waist, elbows. The wind carries with it a smell I can only describe as growth. It's the smell of dirt, of decaying leaves, fresh running water. But, wafting above all is the scent of pine. Clear and sharp, it opens my nose, my chest, and invites me to fully immerse myself in the nature surrounding me. Inhaling deeply through my nose, I become acutely aware of every sense: soft moss at my feet and cool air on my skin, dark green leaves and dark green trees filling my vision, eerie but incomplete silence as the forest settles in the dusk, the clean air sweet and sharp in my throat, the crisp scent of pine. As I welcome these sensations into my being, I become aware of a sixth, more subtle, less describable, sense. Something shifts deep within my chest, all the way down to my stomach. I feel as though I've transcended this physical forest and come to rest as a small, added note in its beautiful, moving harmony.
At last, I can grow.
YOU ARE READING
The Writing Rock
General FictionAs a member of a writing club, I end up with several short pieces and nothing to do with them so this book is dedicated to that. I won't be publishing everything I write, but if it isn't terrible, it'll probably end up here.
