I love the forest.
It beckons to me. Its air smells good. I drink in the fragrance of damp moss, wet tree trunks, wildflowers, and rotting stumps already creating new life. I feel the crunch of pine needles under my feet. I hear branches creaking, and the feet of woodland creatures shuffling as they scurry through tangled undergrowth. I hear squirrels chattering, leaves rustling, the wind whistling, birds singing, and insects humming. The light of the forest plays with shadows and colors while I see fleeting glimpses of rabbits, lizards, mice, and foxes as they scurry from my path. A deer freezes, staring in my direction, preparing for flight. Spider webs glisten like strings of diamonds in the sunlight.
Above the sights, sounds, and smells the forest provides, I cherish its solitude, its calmness, its peace. Within its confines I feel a deep-rooted connection to the world around me. I am reminded life offers more than the busyness of life. I feel my stress, complications, and concerns melt away as I walk through the woods.
On one particular late Autumn day, I strolled through a section of woodland unfamiliar to me. Although a bright sun served to drive away most of the chill of the season I clung tightly to my cloak against a stiff breeze. A few remaining leaves fell from the trees. The brisk air reminded me of the wintry days to come. The scent of burning wood invaded my senses. I turned toward the direction from which it came.
I had not traveled far before I espied a patch of sunlight amidst a thinning in the trees. Drawing nearer I saw a thatched hut spewing out smoke from its peak. Outside this dwelling a singular individual dressed in well-worn clothing gathered wood. With my curiosity satisfied, I intended to circumvent the clearing leaving the man to his work, when he took notice of me and beckoned. “Please, come. I don’t get many visitors. I have some hot porridge and drink inside. It’s not much but does drive away the chill.”
I have no fear in this forest. And so, I studied the man, this hermit in the woods, and proceeded toward him intent on taking up his offer. As I reached him I held out my hand, but he did not take it, instead he opened the door of his hut. He ushered me inside to a crude chair beside an equally crude table. A wood fire warmed the center of the dwelling. He fetched an iron pot of porridge and ladled out some for me in a gourd. Into a second gourd he poured at tea of spruce needles, birch leaves, and a hint of blueberries. As I sipped I felt the Autumn chill seep from my bones.
The hermit sat opposite from me across his table. “I see you are a man of civilization,” he said. “What brings you here?”
“I love the forest,” I replied. “It gives me respite from the hustle and bustle of society.”
“Ah, society,” The hermit nodded. “I remember it well.” He tilted his head and inquired about me, my occupation, and the duties I performed in the world of men.
I told about me and leaned back. “Now you know about me, but what about you? I perceive you have not always lived alone in these woods.”
The bearded man smiled. “I see you are very perceptive.” He leaned against the back of his chair and began his story.
“I grew up on a farm. When I came of age I sought my fortune in a nearby village where I learned the craft of wood carving and became renowned for my skill. From the village I moved to a town where I sought the excitement it offered. I continued to grow in fame as a creator of splendid figures, but discovered I yearned for a quieter life. I bought a cottage on the outskirts of town. From there I, as do you, sought the solitude of the forest.
“One day as I walked, a voice called from a tangle of brambles. I pulled at the thicket and discovered a little man in bright green trousers and a red coat about one fourth my size entangled within. He pleaded with me. ‘Free me and I will make it worth your while.’
“Now, I had learned, as probably have you, of magical creatures that roam the deepest parts of the forest. I pulled out my carving knife and soon set the Little Man free. ‘How did you get trapped?’ I asked.
“To this he replied, ‘I chased a rabbit. He passed through the thicket. I followed and became stuck fast.’
“I stood to leave, when the Little Man said, ‘Hold out your hand.’
“I did and he placed an object in my palm, closed my fingers around it, and dashed away. I opened my hand anticipating something of great value–a diamond, ruby or emerald perhaps, but all I saw was a small, golden seed gleaming in the sunlight. Not much of a reward, thought I, and I tossed it on the ground in front of my cottage when I returned home.
“The next morning a great tree with golden leaves stood where I dropped the seed. I marveled that it had grown so quickly, but I could not deny its presence. That night I heard singing under its branches. A wood nymph and fairies danced in the moonlight.
My days prospered. My crops flourished. My gardens sparkled with blossoms of every hue under the sun. My roses, marigolds, hyacinths, and asters rivaled the finest ever grown. I enjoyed milk and honey each day. Each evening the nymph and the fairies appeared and each night I fell asleep to their singing.
“I examined the beautiful tree and wondered about is wood, being a wood carver. I cut off a branch and out of it carved a splendid figure that appeared to be alive. Encouraged by this, I cut more branches and carved more living figures. Each night my visitors came, but their music now was more somber.
“I considered the beautiful works I had carved from the tree’s branches. I thought, How much more could I make if I use the wood from the tree’s trunk? In my folly I set my saw to the tree. As I touched my tools to the log, its wood died to the touch. The objects I had carved previously became as dead wood, no longer resembling living things. My nightly visitors ceased to come. My gardens, fields, and the place where the tree had grown dried up and became desolate. Overcome in my grief, I left to wander the forest and here I am to tell my tale.”
The hermit finished. “You are quite the story teller,” said I. “But of course, every educated man knows that nymphs and fairies don’t exist, nor do trees grow over night.”
My host smiled. “They don’t, eh?” He pulled an object from off a shelf and placed it in my palm and closed my hand around it. I stared at it. A golden seed.
I do not remember much of the remaining conversation. I finished my tea and porridge, thanked the hermit, and finished my walk. That evening I took the golden seed out of my pocket where I had put it and planted it in soil before my home. I did thus, not because I believed the hermit’s tale, but to prove him wrong.
In the morning I awoke to find a large tree with golden leaves in front of my door. I marvel at the sight and the hermit’s story returns to me. I resolve to use wisely this gift I’ve been given.