It feels like I'm offered a breather 

Senses and Pretenses

In the serenity of this place, I love to embrace the stillness in the air. The breeze rises up every now and then to remind me that this is all real; that I am not the only moving element in a perfect picture. There’s something here that affects you and makes you feel alive. Though I’m quite aware of my senses and I use them all on a regular basis, this is the only place where I use all of them at once. The moment I step into the woods, my nostrils flare, my eyes dart around, my ears pick up too many sounds for me to recognize and I cannot resist the various textures it offers. I do resist picking up mushrooms though… one never knows, does one?

Everything can remind you of something transformed into something else. The other day, I was sitting by the lake and was staring at a boat. I knew it was a boat, but the more I squinted my eyes, the less it resembled one. It ended up looking like a canoe with two chimneys. I was trying to see it, yet I transformed it into something else with my insistence. And my brain, not one to let illusion create a distraction for long, insisted “There’s a boat in here somewhere… squint harder… try harder.”

Again, focusing on something else I was staring at a small island covered in trees I could barely make out because of their lack of foliage. My first thought was that they looked like skeletons with their spare branches sticking out like bony arms reaching out to me. I thought, the woods can be peaceful, while retaining a gothic edge. It’s a place that can be a little mysterious and a bit creepy. I am never afraid of its dark side. I always embrace it. You can often find me there boldly wandering on the darkest nights with the brightest moon.

But on the day of this particular hike, the sun was up in a clear sky. All I wanted was to concentrate and try to embrace all that surrounded me. When the loon let out it’s cry, to me it sounded like the plaintive sound a flute can make when handled by a melancholic player. The concerto rising in the air from the beaks of unidentified fowl was also tender and poignant. When I closed my eyes while sitting next to the water, I could smell the marshes slightly pungent aroma. The sand too had a smell. Can rock smell? There was a hint of clay to it. I know because I’ve been working on a sculpture for about three months now, and it sometimes feels like the smell is now part of me! The breeze inhaling and exhaling around me also brought in some interesting smell. There was a mix of mustiness and muskiness in the air… As if it was bringing to me the smell of nests and animals that lived near by. It reminded me of the true inhabitants of this beautiful place. You might not see us, the wind beckoned, but we live here and some of us are here… watching you…

I turned my head towards the woods, and waited for the breeze to bring to me its smell as well. It brought me the tangy smell of “green”… how else to call the mix of foliage? But it also brought to life the sweet earthy smell of the soil and what covered it: moss, mushrooms, and rotting leaves.

It’s all there for us to experience. When I visit the woods, it offers me a reminder of what life does: it moves forward always and is forever changing, all the while appearing still.

CXXXVIII

When my love swears that she is made of truth,
I do believe her though I know she lies,
That she might think me some untutored youth,
Unlearned in the world's false subtleties.
Thus vainly thinking that she thinks me young,
Although she knows my days are past the best,
Simply I credit her false-speaking tongue:
On both sides thus is simple truth suppressed:
But wherefore says she not she is unjust?
And wherefore say not I that I am old?
O! love's best habit is in seeming trust,
And age in love, loves not to have years told:
Therefore I lie with her, and she with me,
And in our faults by lies we flattered be.