As we crept under the illustrious and verdant canopy of an intimately engulfing medley of colorful leaves and sharply protruding branches, it was the fresh revival of a distant, latent memory that wispily resurfaced and spurred me, personally, onward — for I was adventuring with (at present) the silent intrigue of companions. While the brush and bristle of leafy sylvan arms alluded to the whereabouts of darker treasures, a naturally sporadic nimbus-like glistening of sunlight danced above, cascading its twinkling illuminance and coruscation; a warm source of windy commotion led by the kaleidoscope of a green banneret . . . and swaying articulations of branch, twig, and trunk.
As mentioned earlier, wind alone was not our only contributor to this living noumenal presence wrapped in earthly phenomena. The determinate footsteps before me, as they pressed the earth into recognizable shapes — forming temporary chronographers (in their own right) of our present journey — offered patterned nuances. That is, a shallow, subtle depth of understanding to our mission, as well as an increasing heed to our purpose, culminating as a multifarious fellowship to our labyrinthian advancement.
However, more corporeal threads were to be found as I proceeded, looking up from the ground.
Shimmering, colorful waves . . . the flow of her brushing hair, as if one reoccurring surge of thalassic braiding were both rising and falling congruently and harmoniously, gracing my excursion as we pressed on. Each and every strand of her hair acted in visual concert, laced in something unseen; a knowingly imperceptible, sensational growth of reason showered me with an innumerable range of emotion: a marriage of eagerness, an innocent sense of familiarity, and a whispering tune of mystery, as we continued with our elaborate maneuverings through this forest of both dreams and reality.
Unseen zodiacal shifts of light began to cause unspoken transmutations as hours reduced to moments. A quickening of movements, both deep in the woods, and near, by other creatures . . . of various sizes, could be determined by sound alone.
Our pace also began to quicken, as did the lessening of light.
As we approached a circular clearing, an illuminating codex of constellatory light began to adorn the dawning sky; something natural, and familiar. A sense of relief pushed quiet propagations of air gently passed our lips. With the awareness of our bordered surroundings pushed back aways, we could reconvene . . . and choose a path. There were countless others, depending on your size—not including the one behind us.
A northern route was chosen. Our crusade then swiftly moved ahead, for a thin crescent of light would not suffice for much longer.
Beneath the protective coverings of our adventuring feet, the pathway — lit only by the last rays of sunlight and our lunar attendant — evidenced a forested interspersion of throng and sparseness; the latter offering an occasional offshoot of another, more tightly wound, condensed path. In all likelihood, a path pioneered by an assemblage and rabblement of much smaller woodsman, or woodswoman . . . with the quickening paces of lengthening steps temporarily inscribed into the earth, when environs, and numbers, allowed. All signs that we are drawing near to our hopeful destination.
Now at the front, eager with uncontrollable anticipation, wreathed with an interlacing incertitude, dulcified by an unrelenting appetite for knowing the truth with each brusque sweep and hard-pushing back of these seemingly omnipresent sylvan tendrils, words began to form in my head . . . A cognitive phrasing of my jumbling thoughts . . . an unseen, trembling asterism of revelation . . . a question: “Do we not all share in these remarkable breaths of life? Especially as an inescapable euphonious choir of salubrious songs chaperone us from above — our feathery friends?” They sing with their own curiosity, half-expecting a response from ourselves.
I have stopped . . . my legs are now mere repercussive symbolizations, a corporeal representation of my encompassing environment. A deep breath brings me back to my senses, as does one song in particular — from the throaty, harmonious, high-pitched eloquence of a bird that I cannot yet identify. It is near. Someday I will give it a name (is what I tell myself ) as I quicken my pace, to match the allegiance and rhythmic beating of my heart. Something deep inside of me, a tingling of my cutaneous shell, promises that I am near . . . A hollow, cacophonous drumming begins to stir . . . A festoonery of clattering seashells draped across some branches . . . Now, aft of my progression . . . Their intermingling dances both in front of me and behind are all now culminating, contributing to a wordless message, a secret message, a secret language of those that dwell in these lands, this tangled web of a forest…
I have found her! As Erik promised we would; with a silent gesture, a familiar belief, and a firm hold onto hope.
* * *
I felt compelled to write this piece recently after visiting Ninigret Park in Charlestown, Rhode Island with my wife and, for the first time, one of our dearest friends, whose own adventurous spirit resonates deeply with the celestial harmonies that surround our enormously large, wondrous neighbors. Having previously explored these otherworldly footpaths, ameliorated in the magical enchantment offered by the sovereignties of these mysterious creatures — the Trolls — and, gloriously ringed with actively growing, elaborate imaginations, one cannot deny that we share not only tangible possessions but, tangible emotions.
That is why I have chosen to share this experience, in crafty wordsmithing, with you.
However, it pains me a little bit — as a compellable task moves me to mention—that not all of our recent experiences within that magical forest were whimsically whirling with mysterious enchantments. Instead, our circumambient feelings and uncontrollable sensations, which are usually felt during our adventures; they grow in anticipation, dancing around in various rises and underlined with an eagerness to speak when immediately stepped upon, flattened, crushed . . . by the intrusion and characterless bombardment of signage, depicting where to walk, in order to “discover” the once-mysterious, legendary figures of fantasy and, perhaps, universal protean reality.
“Meaningless,” “vacant,” “devoid of real comprehension and thought,” are only a few of the many other words that come to mind when reflecting on the question of why, and how, such a magical experience could be simply stripped down to a mere selfie-opportunistic wasteland. Remember: Mysterious adventure is the only true spirit of life. Everything else is capitalism in the form of an LLC.
The Troll that whispered to me of her own story and reflections on the matter — which did inspire this piece — asked not to be identified by name, or dwarfed by the efficiency of GPS.
– M.C.