In the Woods
Some of my earliest memories take place in the woods. This might be a bit ironic, since my hometown was the epitome of suburban, with tidy lawns and neat sidewalks -- there were very few dense forests to be found. But to a little kid, that didn't matter much. That uncleared area at the far end of the yard of my childhood home -- that was a forest. That little copse of trees across the street -- that was a forest, too. At least, in my imagination it was, and that's all that really mattered.
I remember spending hours upon hours out in those "forests" with my next door neighbor when we were really young. We knew every nook and cranny of those woods. We'd enter the woods through dark, winding corridors, pretending that we were explorers or adventurers or detectives. We'd walk those mysterious paths until we found our clearings, where there was a flat patch of ground covered in dead leaves and pine needles, where the sun streamed in through the canopy of trees. Those clearings were the "rooms" in which our stories took place, where our imaginations could fully unfold. We'd search for artifacts -- the cracked shells of a robin's egg, the tracks of a raccoon, a collection of acorns left behind by a squirrel. We'd stay out until the sun was beginning to set or until our parents called us in for dinner, whichever happened first.
Over the years, those woods got smaller and smaller, both in the literal and figurative sense. First, the plot just behind ours was cleared to make way for a new house at the top of the cul-de-sac of a neighboring street. Then, one summer, my parents worked tirelessly to take down the trees and brush in the back of our lot, replaced by a new swing set and tree fort and shed and flower beds -- all of the trappings of suburban family life. I was 9 that summer, and by then, my interest in the woods had largely waned, anyway. I'd moved on to other things -- riding my bike and reading and hanging out with friends. I hardly ever felt the pull of the woods anymore.
But it was still there, somewhere, deep within me. That call to be amongst the trees.
In the fall of my senior year of high school, I spent many weekends in the car with my parents, driving all over the place touring college campuses, in a desperate rush to make up my mind about where I could see myself spending those next 4 years of my life. Like most 17 year olds, I was unsure -- did I want to stay in state, or go out of state? Did I belong in a city, or someplace quieter? It was mid-October, and I still had more questions than answers. And then, I visited Quinnipiac University.
I've never experienced "love at first sight" in the traditional sense, but I did experience some form of it that day. I loved the campus, sure, and the people and the programs. But what really won me over were the trees. Quinnipiac's idyllic campus is tucked away in the shadow of Sleeping Giant State Park, aptly named for its mountain that resembles the form of... you guessed it... a sleeping giant. At that point, she was in her full glory -- the fall foliage was at its peak, the leaves of crimson and gold at their most vibrant.
Even though I pretended to deliberate for the months that followed, I knew from that moment that Quinnipiac was where I wanted to spend my college years. I knew that I'd feel at home in this place that was nestled in the forest.
I spent the next five years of my life (four for undergrad, an an additional one for my Masters) on that campus in the shadow of the Sleeping Giant, watching the trees on the mountain change with the seasons, walking to my classes in the shade of maples and pines, and I knew that I'd made the right choice.
But, as most of us who are raised in the suburbs do, I ended up back in the 'burbs as an adult. They're like force fields, aren't they? We're drawn back to the places we grew up (or at least places that resemble where we grew up) to raise our own kids.
And it was nice. Comfortable. Familiar. We lived in a great town that was similar in many ways to my own hometown, with awesome parks, and schools, and rec sports programs. Our house was in a nice little neighborhood, perfect for riding bikes and walking dogs and going trick-or-treating.
But something was missing. Trees. Woods. Nature. Quiet.
Almost two years ago, we decided to put our little suburban raised ranch up for sale and move our three kids out to the woods, to an oversized colonial on 10 acres of forested land, set far back from the road. Our former neighbors were perplexed when we decided to move. "This town is perfect. The schools are amazing. Why would you ever want to leave?"
I was met with that question a lot, and it's a difficult one to answer -- especially because there are so many benefits to suburban life, and it's not surprising that so many people would choose it. Probably for many of the same reasons I chose it.
But then I think back to my own childhood, to the countless hours I spent amongst the trees, armed with nothing but my imagination. The woods were a wellspring of creativity, a refuge from the "noise" of modern life, a place to reconnect with the beauty of nature. And I wanted all of that for my own kids.
So often in this journey from the suburbs to the forest, I've thought about Henry David Thoreau. (It's totally not weird at all to think about a 19th century transcendentalist philosopher on a regular basis, right?!) A few times over the years, I've visited the site of the cabin on Walden Pond in Concord, MA where he spent a couple years writing Walden. There's a sign there with one of the book's most well known quotes: "I went to the woods because I wished to live deliberately, to front only the essential facts of life, and see if I could not learn what it had to teach, and not, when I came to die, discover that I had not lived."
When we first moved in to our house in the woods, one of the first things I hung on the wall was a framed version of that very quote. I thought it might serve as a daily reminder for why I'm here, surrounded by trees and birdsong instead of the manicured lawns and picket fences of our former suburban life. But I don't really need Thoreau's reminder. I am reminded of the reasons whenever my kids come traipsing out of the woods with their hands full of acorns or special rocks. I'm reminded when I walk down the winding driveway through an awning of brightly colored autumn leaves. I'm reminded when I see a majestic hawk stretch out its enormous wings and soar from one treetop to another. I'm reminded when I watch a mother doe and her fawns munch on leaves at the forests' edge.
One of the most beautiful things about life is the ability we each have to find our own place, geographically speaking (and otherwise) -- and that looks different for each of us. For some, it is a city, where one can walk its streets admiring its architecture, its people, its sights and sounds and smells. For others, it's a little town where the kids can ride their bikes in the street and neighbors wave hello as they walk by with their dogs. And some feel most at home in the woods, or by the seashore, or at the foot of a mountain. Any and all of these are beautiful.
What's most important is that the place we choose to settle, wherever that may be, bring us joy. That we find ourselves among scenery (whether natural or man-made) that inspires and motivates us. That we can look around at our surroundings and feel that we are truly home.
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