— John Muir

Aging has an interesting effect on the body, the senses, and on the spirit. We start life by slowly broadening our horizons and our vision, from the narrow view from the cradle to the broader view of the world and what we hope our role in it will be. Those views and perspectives are later largely determined by our experiences, and are generally broader for those who have travelled a lot, narrower for those who haven’t. Physically speaking, time also takes its toll, slowing some of us down more than others, once again depending on our individual experiences and how well we have taken care of ourselves.

When it comes to perspective, I can only speak personally, of course. But I’ve worked among the elderly enough to know that, as time moves on, so does the space we move around in narrow, and along with it, our view of life and of the world. And as I continue to plod on in my own little corner of it, nature continues to assume more and more importance with each passing day.

Once I managed to reach the longsought for place where I stopped trying to change “the things I cannot change,” those “things” didn’t always cooperate. They still come at me at odd times and from unexpected places, not the least of which is through social media, which, as I’m learning, is not always a good thing. I’m learning that the old saw “what we don’t know can’t hurt us” still applies, and more so now than ever when we are bombarded with far more information than most of us need or want on any given day. But then, I look out the window and see that nothing much has changed out there. The leaves are still blowing on the trees, the birds are still vying for first dibs at my feeder, and the water in the pond still bows to the wind’s will. How can so much emotional energy be continuously displaced and disrupted at the human level yet not affect my surroundings? What affects trees and flowers and birds often spills over into my life, but the reverse isn’t always necessarily true.

And lucky for me that it’s not! Though life is a continuum from the smallest to the most sopisticated living organism, nature seems to draw the line at some point between the human experience and that which is evidenced in nature, in the woods, the fields, the hills and the seas. No matter how much in turmoil I am or how beset I am by life’s cares, the water in the pond still flashes quicksilver in the sunlight, and the trees along its shores still bend and sway in the breeze. Their leaves will soon fall, the pond will once again ice over, and none of it will be much affected by what goes on in my own sphere of existence. Yes, how lucky for me that I have it all to turn to when nothing else makes any sense to me at all.

Recently, I decided to take a walk in the woods, so I doused myself with insect repellent and was off with my trusty walking stick. It was the middle of the week, so there were no ATVers about to spoil the serenity. As I trod the well-beaten path, the woods surrounded me in their richness. It promised to be another warm day, and the trees already reflected this as they settled into their August dog-day somnolence. Not a leaf or a twig stirred in the still sunbeam-ridden air, and the only sound was that of ravens calling in the distance and the low buzz of insects whose wings glinted in the morning light.

And there it was again, the singlemindedness, the sloughing off of worldly cares, the focusing only on my surroundings and nothing else. What is it about the woods that they can do that to a person? Is it their sheer vastness that far outsizes me and renders me but another bit of movement on the forest floor, another minute displacement of air? Is it the overpowering silence that allows nothing at all to intrude? These questions come to me now, sitting here at my work-table. But there? Between the road and the path, the transformation of perception is instant, undeniable and suffers no pondering. And always always, lucky for me, the distance toward the peace that nature bestows is short, swift, and sure.

— Rachel Lovejoy, a freelance writer living in Lyman, who enjoys exploring the woods of southern Maine, can be reached via email at rachell1950@hotmail.com.