JANUARY 24, 2022 – Woods are fraught. Little Red Riding Hood nearly met her doom there, as did other “Grimm” characters. Belleau Wood is where U.S. Marines were baptized by fire in WW I and in the Ardennes Forest a later generation of U.S. soldiers battled the last German offensive of WW II.
We still refer to the woodland border as our safety line, as in, “We’re not out of the woods yet”—meaning we’re still in trouble . . . or “We’re now out of the woods,” and by implication, free from the dangers that lurk there.
In present circumstances, I’m disappointed by the woods metaphor. Pain here, a setback there, a new worry hanging across my thoughts—each a reminder I’m “not out of the woods yet.” This rips at the cultivation I’ve dedicated to my “tree garden” up at the lake.
Months have passed since I hiked the trails, now covered with snow and . . . footprints of fauna that inhabit “the garden.”
I contemplate the old woods that hold my favorite ski trail in the world—the American Birkebeiner Trail—and how often every winter I’ve skated up and down its undulating terrain, gliding not along the surface of the earth but up and down heaven’s corridors. This year . . . the dazzling sun and freshly groomed snow are pleasures reserved for other skiers.
And woe is me—out of the woods when I want to be in these woods.
My non-skiing friend Ravi expressed worry about my psychological loss from being “out of the woods.”
I reassured him—if I’m still in the woods metaphorically, I’m also beyond then.
Take, for example, our mutual friend Mark. He and I have skied far and wide together. A mogul skier on the professional circuit during college, he’s also a “first wave” cross-country skier in the Birkebeiner. In better years, I could match him stride for stride until . . . it was nonsense for me to try.
A few days ago, I was ever grateful I wasn’t skiing with Mark at all. During a local woodland workout, he was attacked by a dog. The canine sank its teeth into Mark’s behind and drew blood, sending him to the hospital. What a way to emerge from . . . the woods.
My dear sister Elsa, however, faces a far more serious “woe of the woods.” Like our other two sisters, she was born with a violin in her hands, and thus, has been “of the woods” her entire life. In her astonishing musical career, she’s climbed the highest trees of the loftiest forests. Then, a few years ago, merciless genetics tore muscle and tendons. She’s lost her musical voice altogether and stands outside her beloved woods, looking in.
For me, skiing, hiking in the woods were whimsical pursuits. For Elsa, the divine experience of singing from the tallest tree upon the highest ridge is now an echo. Yet in Saturday’s phone call, she allowed not a hint of sorrow or self-pity but a desire to teach herself something on . . . the piano.
Peace is where you seek it . . . and where you find it.
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© 2022 by Eric Nilsson
