There are places on the land that I cannot describe without the word magical. Part of what makes them feel that way is the journey to get to them. Perhaps they would seem more ordinary with out having struggled through prickly ash, waded through murky waters, or swatting at deer flies on the way. One thing is for sure, if they were easy to get to, people would. So after my "right of passage" these spots seem to be mine alone. And I am not sure that I want to share them!
So now that I have mentioned them, I guess I really need to share them with you, at least as wordy glimpses from the comfort of your chair. Rising above the bogs, the glacial hills appear unexpectedly from the trees and brush. You heart starts pumping harder as you climb through the prickly ash, following deer trails as they cut across the face of the rise. It is dark. Shady even on the sunniest days. The canopy of oak and birch keeps the under growth at a minimum. Fallen logs provide a seat, cushioned by moss, from which to catch your breath.
My focus, now that it is not occupied with keeping me upright and moving, changes. I hear the birds sounds, soft as they call from hidden locations. There are surprisingly few bugs out here. I scan the ground and log close to me for small bits of color that turn into mushrooms and tiny flowers. All that is missing is the flash of a fairy disappearing under a leaf.
I rise and continue to the crest of the hill. Surrounded on all sides by lowlands and rough ground, this land was never farmed. It doesn't show many signs of man at all, just an occasional dilapidated fence line, half buried as it becomes part of the woods. Cows may have once grazed here. I don't think they would have found much here, preferring the more open, grassy areas, but farmers would have wanted to use the land for "something useful". Too hard to get to, so no houses have been built that I know of, although there is a dugout hollow that may have been a cellar over 100 years ago. So now it is park like. Tall, old trees scattered by necessity as each seeks its own share of the sunlight above. Open areas, that when the sunlight comes streaming in at low angles seem to be just waiting for some mythical beast to appear, backlit and awe inspiring. I want to linger. To wait for that moment. Knowing that anything could appear...wandering down the slender trail.
Life calls, and I must leave, however reluctantly. But I know that these spots will be there when I return. Always changing in the light, different as the seasons roll on by. After I suffer through the right of passage, when I need them most, they appear before me. I hope you find you own magical spots out there, just not when I am there!
