Some places are sacred. Forests are one of them. There are certain places we go where the ground feels somehow sacred. The space feels deep and the air is tinged with heaviness. That’s how I feel when I enter the forest, when I walk amongst the moss-covered giants that line the forest floor.
I’m not sure who I should have been, or if that’s even a thing, providence and destiny being what they are–or aren’t. I know who I was, have a vague idea of who I am, and no idea who I will become. And, I suppose, that’s about how it should be. But every so often I do get to wondering, in a pensively muddled Robert Frost meets Thoreau kind of way, what might have been