We Are Both Called To The Woods

 

Not too far from my home is a preserve of woods with miles of trails winding through.  For over a year now, as my mind has raced, as my heart has ached, this place has been my solace.  It's here that I come to run. I spend an hour every other day feeling my lungs balloon, my heart thundering, the muscles of my legs afire. A mental fortitude is required to combat the physical difficulties of running. And I feel if I can cultivate that here, I can carry that with me outside of these woods, as well. It's my reminder that I can do hard things. I've seen, too, the woods evolve through the seasons as my own life evolves -- as falling leaves brought closure of relationships; as I anticipate the return of the green once again when new doors  -- different doors with different people -- open. The lessons in these woods, simply, are plentiful. 

And I'm not the only one that comes to these woods with regularity.

I've marveled before at the park people -- the regulars to specific parks at specific times of day with an incomparable religiosity. These woods have them, too.

This man pictured above also comes to these woods as often as I do. He, like me, also brings his pain into these woods, though not to run.

He's relatively young -- early 30s, perhaps. His face is handsome, with a long and thick beard. His body is sturdy. It's a physique that I'd normally feel protected by; a physical impression that would typically connote confidence, manliness. A bear, really. (If I sprained an ankle on the trail, say, he could surely carry me out.) 

But he's broken. 

He comes to these woods as often as I do to drink himself into a stupor. He walks deep into the woods -- a different part of the trail each time -- with a bag of beer that he uses to dull himself with.

The first time I encountered him, he was sitting on a bench on the blue trail, in a spot that overlooks a stream below. I had to ascend a steep hill before he came into view and by the time I could see him, we were just feet away from each other. His face was ruddy, cans littered at his feet, and one grasped in his hand. This bear of a man. This injured bear of a man. And so I did what I do -- I smiled and said 'Hello'. And though his expression didn't change from the grimness that fell over it, he said 'hello' back. But as I started to run again away from him, he called out to me. I didn't catch it and I considered just running on, hoping that wouldn't anger him, hoping that he was too inebriated to give chase. But, with my heart thumping from more than just the physical exertion now, I stopped and turned towards him again with a 'Sorry?' And he repeated what he had said. It was this: 'It's nice, right?' And he made a gesture with his free hand, almost imperceptible, to the woods around us. And with that, I wasn't afraid of him anymore.

The second time I saw him, he was sitting on the thick trunk of a fallen tree on the black trail. To access this section of the woods, you have to travel at least a mile from any of the entrances to get there. He had walked his lumbering, slow walk to sit on that tree trunk where he was, once again, ruddy and sloshing. It was weekend, though, and so the typically empty trail had some people, their dogs, their children on them on this day. What I mean to convey here is that I wasn't alone with him on this day -- and for this I am grateful. On this day, when I ran past him, I gave a wave. His eyes seemed to look straight through me, even as they tracked me across the path. He was wordless, soundless on that day. He was there, but not there and I thought of a soda bottle that has been shaken.  You cannot see the pressure built up on the inside. Only when the explosion happens do you realize what had been bubbling all that time. I ran faster awaiting an explosion that day.

The next time I saw him, I was on the white trail. I had rounded a bend and my eyes were focused on the ground in front of me -- mud and leaves and puddles of water covered the snaking tree branches I knew now from experience to dodge. I didn't notice him until, once again, he was close. I lifted my eyes to find him reclining on a hill, off the trail and amongst the trees. On this day, he was animated. He lifted himself up onto his arms as I passed him and when I offered a timid wave (not stopping my feet), he made a noise. It wasn't an audible word that escaped him, but a noise. Something between a grunt and a higher-pitched cry. A noise that sounded desperate; a noise that mixed of surprise and excitement and a call for help all in one. I willed my tired legs to move faster and I pumped my arms the last half mile back to my car. And as I neared the clearing of the woods, where the trail ends and opens into the gravel parking space, I heard him make a noise once again. From deep in the woods, he bellowed. I imagined him like a wolf, straining his neck towards the sky to release this primal message up into the air above; letting out all the ache the bubbled within him.

This photo I took of him on our fourth encounter. I had just finished my run and was sitting in my car exchanging my muddied shoes for a clean pair of slides to drive home in when I saw him walking towards the trail entrance. I had just given my pain to the woods and he was now heading to do the same. 

We are both called to the woods.