Forest for the Trees

When the sky becomes inky, as twilight quickens toward black, when the world is only illuminated by distant streetlamps and crescent moon, faces appear in the forest, born of the trees, the natural clocks of infinity. The faces, formed of leaf and shadow, are ancient and private, only visible to the ardent viewer. The regulars appear, the jolly green giant with Sprout nearby, but Pan is also present, panpiping his final autumn symphony, heralding the onset of winter and hibernation. Arcadia listens intently, searching for hints of a distant spring, a remote rebirth, when the eromenoi step out from under the loving touch of their mentors and become the most courageous men. Even the moon is seduced toward fullness, overcome with the panic of d-flat and possibility.

I have worn many faces in my life, few of them my own, most of them born in my own shadows of fear and doubt. Yet I find myself tonight believing that my circle is completing, that I am ready to wear the face I was meant to wear, that I am synchronized with my life clock. I have always let my heart rule my life, choosing that option long ago, eschewing the influence of my brain. I have chosen to distrust my intellect, believing that it would lead me into a life of stunted imagination and empty goals. I have never felt comfortable with direction, feeling more at ease in the ebbs and flows of randomness. Perhaps it was easier avoiding the pitfalls of possible successes. I don't think I've ever been afraid to try, but I have been afraid to finish. But the melding of thought and feeling has appeared to me finally, like the leafy faces in the trees.

I have always let my life be ruled by happenstance, not a victim of it, but rather a willing participant, and I believe I have always stood in the resultant consequences, with courage, perhaps, but laced with a certain impotence. As a result, my life has moved forward with an enormous lack of self control, mixed with immediacy and expedience. But I am coming to realize that I have been gifted with certain abilities and talents that perhaps deserve direction and guidance, and that I have to create my creation, that lasting gift for those who follow. There is no haughtiness in this belief, only a certainty that it must evolve in the forest time that I have been given. There really is no sense in pondering the worth of my creation, only realizing its necessity.

There are many faces visible in the shadows of the trees, and soon they will fade to sleep. The gods, or at least the powers of the life force, reside there. The demons as well. I thought I saw the face of Satan, but it turned out to be the hair lipped face of Eric Roberts. But it is not the faces of the patriarchy that I seek. It is rather the faces of the feminine, the birthing faces hiding in the canopy, only illuminated by the light of the Pleiades, more difficult for me to pull into my new reality. But I will find them, and listen to them, and their light will spark my creation.

Yes, I have seen the faces. I have even seen my own, but it is a new face, one that I have never worn. It resides in the oak, strong and rooted. I will no longer be the willow, bowing to drink but never tasting, safely grasping the dry shore. I will no longer be the elm, diseased and disappearing. The pine, the cottonwood, the linden, the ash, the chestnut, the maple. They all have their place in the woods, in my woods. It is time for my forest to thrive. It is time for eagles to sway the treetops. It is time for the crows to stand sentinel. It is time for the jays to thieve, the cardinals to be leery, the squirrels to dervish, and the chipmunks to hoard. It is time for life in my forest, time for all the natural cycles to reside in sacred grace. After all, my time is still my eternal time and, as the man said, I have 'miles to go before I sleep'.