The Woods at Dusk

 

In late December the woods are quiet at dusk. 

 

I stand in my backyard lost in the mystery of trees. Two squirrels chase each other through the snow and gathering shadows. I listen to trees creak in the breeze, and hear the soft click-click-click of empty sunflower shells landing on each other, dropped by wrens and finches at the feeder. The magenta of sunset flares across the sky then shifts to rose and deepens to the radiant night blue of the cosmos. 

 

People around my neighborhood have placed electric candles in their windows and draped garlands of lights over their bushes and along their eaves as affirmations of hope and to guide their families home.

 

I let the presence of nature settle into me. Weary from a long year of challenges, I wait for something unknown to come. I want to root myself into nature’s wonder, and scale back my expectations so that simple things delight me again. I want to feel renewal, and I believe there is more mystery to life than what I see.

 

There is something eternal about nature, something that endures no matter what happens, something that is unchanging. When I spend time in the woods, or the prairies, or along a river, I believe that hope and compassion still exist in people’s hearts.

 

I wait in case a forgotten memory returns, or an insight into a problem that seems to have no answer, but tonight I don’t need either of these to happen because I feel the presence of nature, and this is enough.

 

Quiet conversations of animals and birds are going on in the woods. As the sunset fades, stars appear and sparkle in the cold sky. The earth sails slowly through the dark and majestic ocean of night and among its constellations. I think of what Sigurd Olson wrote when he paused in his paddling on Lake Superior to listen to nature around him:

 

The movement of a canoe is like a reed in the wind. Silence is part of it, and the sounds of lapping water, bird songs, and wind in the trees. It is part of the medium through which it floats, the sky, the water, the shore.

 

My neighbors are hosting a holiday party. I hear the happy music and laughter and see the colorful lights and dancing. Someone comes out on their deck, stands by the railing and stares into the woods. Perhaps the party has become overheated, or too loud or too bright, and they need a break from it. We listen to nature celebrate winter in its quiet way, and begin its turn towards spring.

 

The moments when we pause our lives and look into the darkness with more curiosity than fear are eternal. It’s when we remember that life is not a race but a dialogue.

 

The breath of oblivion. The impermanence of time. The eternity of hope.