The Pygmy Forest

Just the name “Pygmy Forest” sounds enchanting. I expected to be greeted by elfin creatures like those who inhabited my childhood imagination. The book Paulus and the Acornmen by Jean Dulieu was a favorite of mine, and I half expected acornmen to be traipsing around carrying edible fungi on pine needle stretchers fashioned from spider webs. Or at least see artistically trimmed bonsai bushes dotting the landscape.

But the Pygmy Forest looks like a scrawny, scrubby place with soil so poor in nutrients that hundred-year-old trees have trunks the diameter of a hairbrush and barely rise above my shoulders. In fact, it takes so long for any soil to form—I’m not kidding, this topsoil is over a half million years old—that visitors must use a raised boardwalk to prevent harming its delicate surface.

Needless to say, I was underwhelmed. On top of that, I felt guilty for having that reaction. There are very few such ecosystems on earth and I just wasn’t seeing the inherent beauty in such a place. Until I took a closer look.

Okay, those tiny little pollen dispensers on the pine’s diminutive boughs were quite intriguing. And those wee white flowers with their pale pink stamens were rather pretty. The rhododendron seedpods beginning to form reminded me of miniature corn dogs on a carousel, which caused me to chuckle.

I noticed the pattern of a dying leaf along with its pebbly texture and dramatic color bands. It was pointing like an arrow, or a sideways exclamation point, suggesting: look around! A small tree trunk’s knot looked a bit like a female figure surrounded by cloud-like hair.

When I have specific expectations they are less likely to be met than when I open my mind to experience what is in front of me now, in this moment. All it took to appreciate the Pygmy Forest was a shift in my attitude—a reopening of my eyes to the secrets held within its borders. Perhaps Paulus and one of his acornmen were actually hiding under that fallen leaf…

All photos © Sondra Sula.

Does It Really Matter?

When I take my Gratefulness Walks, I feel as if they are a part-time job, a facet of my true vocation. They are as necessary to my survival as bread and water—a communion of sorts. I am communing with God, nature, the flow, all of it. I am partaking of the true bread that rises within my soul when I behold the wonders of creation. My inner self shouts: Glory Be! My open hands rise up of their own accord, fingers slightly apart so that I can become a waterfall as grace pours down upon me. But does it really matter?

I was pondering this question as I noticed tiny striped posies winking up at me from the grass, pinking-sheared petals waving brightly. Perhaps no one ever took the time to greet these twins or revel in their cheerfulness. A prickly pod warned me not to come nearer, but how could I resist its bulbous form? And when a fringed lavender flower introduced me to a spider and a beetle, I wasn’t going to be impolite by ignoring them.

A tall white flower brushed against my arm as the path narrowed, borne in a cluster—a little community unto itself, friendly enough to greet passersby. Bugle-shaped blooms announced their presence in a startling yellow-orange hue.

As I ventured deeper into the forest, browns and greens reigned. Death and decay are no strangers to the moist woods. Fallen trees tell their stories in ringed years as they feed fungi and serve as hosts to mop-headed moss and wood sorrel.

I had not forgotten my question when I reached a fallen log carved by someone longing for permanence. I focused my eyes on the word: MATTER. I guess what I do really does matter. Why else would I be directed to this word on this path, a trail I had never taken before?

As I wound back through dark forests, open meadows, and dry, hard-packed soil covered with graceful, dancing eucalyptus leaves, I realized that everything we do matters. Living life is a universal vocation.

All photos © Sondra Sula.

The Payoff

I was excited about this hike. I’d heard a dazzling waterfall was at the end of it. Along the trail I spied nodding heads of columbine, noting the default color was similar to, yet more intense than, the pink and lemon blooms back in Chicagoland. I noticed a wild cucumber blossom with a little bug crawling inside. Yup, Aurora had those, too. How long was it to this waterfall, anyway?

The air changed a bit. It felt cleaner, oxygen rich, more moist. The dark canopy let only shafts of light through. I passed a tree with six feet of roots above ground and a hollowed out trunk that looked like a hobbit house in the making. Okay, this was definitely different from the Midwest; I must be near the waterfall.

Suddenly I could hear it through the trees: liquid hitting rock. And then I saw it. Well, it is pretty, I thought. Perhaps not as spectacular as I built it up to be… I scrambled down to its base, felt its misty spray on my face, gazed at the pools into which it emptied. I couldn’t help but feel a little let down. This is the payoff?

Sometimes we spend our lives waiting for the payoff, be it the perfect vacation, retirement, even the afterlife. I know I keep dreaming about a forty-day retreat that will change my life forever. But the truth is, I can change my life now. And what if the payoff isn’t as dramatic as expected? What then?

I continued on the path as it switchbacked steeply up. I discovered I was at the top of the waterfall and it was narrow enough to straddle. As the water rushed between my feet, I realized the payoff is actually before, during and after—there is only one moment encompassing them all.

Everything I saw on the remaining portion of the hike took on heightened significance and beauty: the chewed leaf of a rhododendron, a plump golden-orange berry glinting in the sun, strange mauve flowers like veined balloons protruding from the forest floor. Everything is the payoff.

All photos © Sondra Sula.

I’m Goin’ to Jackson

Jackson State Forest is large and mysterious. I know I will be taking many walks in this place of evergreen needle-padded quietude. In a wonderful turn of good fortune, my next door neighbor is a forester there and was kind enough to show me around this magical redwood forest he knows like the back of his hand.

Sacred. Silent. Sublime. These are the words that instantly come to mind as I enter the woods. The Sequoia inspire awe inside me. I feel their stately presence, breathe in their exhalation of rich oxygen, sense a strange wisdom exuding from their standing in one place for hundreds, perhaps thousands, of years.

Light enters through the canopy in angelic rays, spotlighting ferns, pine cones, beetles, berries and bark. Each is exquisite in its own right: fern leaves like toothed swords, cones interwoven and fringed, beetles black as night, berries bluer than a deep, cloudless sky and bark wavy as silken hair.

Flowers make unexpected appearances too: tiny white stars bloom up a slender stalk, Douglas iris shyly folds her inner petals, and wild lilies explode like red fireworks.

I’m grateful I’ll be going to Jackson again and again. God is ever present in the living, breathing creation there, here and everywhere.

All photos © Sondra Sula.

Emerging from Drabness

Close to the Ides of March, when the winter snow melts in Aurora, Illinois, a drab landscape unfolds in shades of brown and gray. A feeling of impatience wells up within me to experience the brightness of spring, with her wildly colored tresses and riot of movement.

But if I am patient, and look closely at the forest before me, I spot signs of life. A dead log thrills my sense of design with its abstract patterns of ivory, chartreuse and silver created by living decay. Oak leaves shimmer with diseased spots that look radiant against the monochromatic forest floor. A tiny spider catches my eye, and I snap a photo of him before he jumps away. What else can I find?

A mourning cloak butterfly surprises me as I’m bending down, her scalloped wings nearly brushing my wayward hair strands. I see evidence of an insect that has bored holes into a tree stump. I notice a beaver-chewed sapling shaped like an arrow, pointing to a pair of Canada geese cutting through the weary-hued river. Bit by bit my spirit is lifting.

I behold a glorious display of snowdrops—triune petticoats aflutter in the strong breeze—that have pushed through a season’s worth of heavy mulch despite their delicate appearance. Nearby a tiny caterpillar crawls quickly, his dotted yellow sides undulating with every parallel movement of his suction-cup legs. I even see a green-leaved vine snaking its way up the rough bark of a tree.

Life is emerging from the drabness, allowing my heart to rejoice in the change, for abundance always follows the fallow season.

All photos © Sondra Sula.

Walking on Water

When my husband, a friend and I arrived at Myakka River State Park in Florida, the ground was wet. A torrential downpour the night before, combined with a myriad of recent rains, had created moist, spongy walkways where there had once been dry, crackling palm leaves. At the visitor center we were informed that every trail was flooded.

With only one pair of sneakers, I wasn’t willing to destroy them for a walk, and neither were my cohorts. We reasoned that portions of the trails must be dry enough to walk on, and we would simply turn around each time we came to an impasse.

We didn’t expect to come to these uncrossable areas in the first hundred yards, and yet that’s what happened on the first few trails. But we finally hit upon a path that allowed us to go further into the Spanish moss-draped woods.

We enjoyed poking around the detritus, finding fabulously colored fungi, lichen and tiny flowers. Latticed saw palmetto trunks provided climbing pillars for vines, and their fallen leaves littered the forest floor with beige accordion fans—the perfect perch for sunning lizards and snakes.

After walking for a while, we came to an area of the path that was flooded. Other hikers had placed various collected debris over the area in an attempt to make it passable. We did our part, searching for fallen palm leaves, shed bark, sticks—anything to add to the precarious “bridge.”

As I tiptoed my way across, the water seeped up the walls of my sneakers, but never reached the upper edge. I felt like I was walking on water, being held up by the community of those who trod the path before me. The twigs and leaves they gathered may have seemed like a small contribution at the time, but when combined with the offerings of others, became a bridge.

Everything we do matters, even the little things—like making the impassable passable.

All photos © Sondra Sula.

Navigating the Path

When I made plans to lunch with a friend in an unfamiliar town, I had to look at a map to get my bearings and noticed a forest preserve nearby. Always up for an adventure, I decided to take a little walk after meeting my friend and made sure to bring my waterproof hiking boots.

I drove into the ice-laced parking lot and watched a burly male hiker enter the trailhead. After lacing up my boots, donning a winter headband, wrapping a scarf around my neck, and putting on knit gloves, I was ready to begin. I tromped through the snow to a sign depicting a large blue lake, expecting to see trail map, but it was merely a bit of history. The trail probably follows the lake, I thought.

At first it did, curving around the snow-covered expanse of the lake’s frozen surface. But then the trail split away and I wasn’t sure if I should forge my own path, keeping the lake in view, or follow the fresh footprints of the man I had seen taking the same route. Surely he was circling the lake, too. Following him made sense, since the lake’s edge might be pocked with holes hidden by the snow.

I came to a double sign and was sure one of the stacked boards would steer me in the right direction, but any paint had long worn off. The front and back of the weathered wood signs looked identical.

I found myself approaching a small abandoned building, which turned out to be an old latrine—three seats across—carved out of wood. The shoe treads of the man were now gone, and in their place were tiny squirrel and raccoon prints. He must have turned back and I didn’t notice.

The path divided again and again until I reached an open area that allowed me to see quite far. I saw no lake. I did spot a blotch of white among a stand of dark trees in the distance. As I squinted, it was suddenly aloft beating massive wings—a snowy owl?

The sun was traveling quickly to the west. Evenings come early this time of year and I didn’t want to be lost in the dark. That’s when I realized the smartphone I was taking pictures with also had a Global Positioning System. Perhaps I could navigate my way back via satellite.

I turned on the map and voila, I was a blue dot among a crisscross of trails, and I had been traveling farther and farther away from my car—not around the lake. In fact, there was no trail encircling the lake. I felt giddy as I tried different paths and could quickly identify if I had chosen the right one. Knowing how to get back gave me the freedom to enjoy the forest’s marvels. Now I could calmly remember that the golden green moss I photographed against a snowy tree trunk indicated north. I could even appreciate the setting sun, knowing I was close to the parking lot.

No matter how many twists and turns I take on my life’s journey, I’m bound to find my way home. Learning to navigate the path and noticing the wonders along the way is half the fun.

All photos © Sondra Sula.

Walking at Sunset

“Throwing Up Their Hands at Nightfall” by Sondra Sula

I normally walk in the morning, if pressed, the afternoon. But I rarely walk at sunset.

The light at the end of the day has a different quality to it, usually more yellow or pink, and slanted dramatically to create long shadows opposite the sun. Tree limbs, when backlit, can take on a wild, flailing look, as if they are throwing up their hands at nightfall, unable to stop its progression.

“Creek Snake” by Sondra Sula

A small creek runs behind our house that can trickle or tumble depending on the amount of rain or snow accumulation. At dusk it changes to a shimmering snake flecked with gold and purplish scales. Because leaves have dropped to the ground and only twiggy branches remain, I see farther up towards the snake’s mouth where it gobbles up the forest.

Empty nests of birds and squirrels are obvious now, silhouetted against coral clouds. I know the birds have gone, but I imagine squirrels curled inside smooth curves of brown oak leaves, made soft by repeated naps.

God has created a system in which the winding down process for the night is tinged with beauty. We are given a painterly canvas of sky to remember our small place in the world, a lullaby, sung by nature, to gently hum us to sleep. Look, listen and enjoy the night to come.

“Curling in Their Nests” by Sondra Sula

 

Her Final Walk

“On Her Way” by Sondra Sula

Sadie, the one-eyed wonder dog, and the only dog I’ve ever had, has passed on. But not before taking a final gratefulness walk of her own. At an impressive age of 114 doggie years, Sadie was slowing down considerably, having trouble seeing, eating, sleeping, walking, and at times even standing. A tumor on her side had kicked into high gear, growing wildly after eight years of staying exactly the same size.

“Sadie’s Sweet Sixteen” by Rob Sula

My husband wanted to take her for one last walk in the woods, and let her wander off leash. Sadie was always a runner. She could be a speck in the distance in less than a minute. Once, when we thought a harness was a secure walking option, she wriggled out of it in a dramatic Houdini move before we even made it to the end of the driveway. But on this day, we could surely outrun her.

She had to be carried to the car and laid into the back seat where I sat with her, stroking her regal head. When we arrived at the gravel parking lot, only wide enough to hold five cars and usually empty, my husband gently placed her feet on the ground. She was attached to her extend-o leash, and even with a gentle tug, I was afraid she would crumple. That’s when we all smelled a delicious aroma.

A heavily bearded man sat on a small stool next to his parked truck, tending to the tiniest grill I’d ever seen. He was cooking a steak, an activity I’d never witnessed in this normally deserted area. The smell seemed to give Sadie the energy she needed to trot on down the trail, her black nose sniffing the air. She stopped and rooted through forest floor debris, passed red-leaved oaks, rubbed against seeding goldenrod. And then she suddenly turned around.

At that point we removed the leash and let her walk freely back to the car. When we arrived, the mysterious stranger was gone, but the meaty scent lingered.

Back at the house, she collapsed into her padded bed and slept soundly for the first time in days. She could barely walk or stand after that, and stopped eating. We buried her the next day deep in the ground wrapped in her special pink blanket, the one from which she hungrily ate all the edges on the first night she found us. She was surrounded with her favorite toys and looked beautiful, even in death.

That night an image popped into my head while I was in bed, waiting for sleep to come. I saw Sadie in a circle of thirty or forty animals. Rabbits, groundhogs, squirrels, mice, birds—all of them had been her prey during life. But there was no judgment, in fact, all of them were friends, and aware of their roles in their previous incarnations. It was certainly not an image I had expected to see—yet it was profound.

I’m not sure what’s next for Sadie, or for any of us, but I like to think the wonder of who we are lives on.

“Sadie’s Last Walk” by Sondra Sula

The Long View

“Three Landscapes” by Sondra Sula

“Green Veins” by Sondra Sula

I like to get close to nature—literally. If I see an interesting leaf, not only will I walk right up to it, I’ll bring my eyeball to within an inch of its veiny surface. But there’s also something to be said for the long view, the vista, the place where trees blur against the horizon.

When I can’t see where the path is going because it bends beyond my vision, I must walk by faith, believing the path continues and leads towards a place I need to go. I don’t give up simply because I can’t see the journey’s end. And I also don’t take to the trail with blinders on, marching hastily through without stopping to enjoy the scenery.

If an obstacle is in my path, I can choose to go over, under, or around it. There are even times I need to go through it. Coming out on the other side is almost always accompanied by a sense of accomplishment.

“Overcoming Obstacles” by Sondra Sula

I’ll eventually come to an open area where I can turn around, take a breather, and see where I’ve been. These respites are helpful to reflect upon my progress, to feel the energy I’ve spent has brought me to a new place, that I’m not simply back where I started.

I may not be sure where I am on the journey, but I do know I’m closer to the horizon—and the view is a sight to behold.

“Cottonwoods” by Sondra Sula