Last weekend, Mark and I camped in the Sylvania Wilderness area. Less than 5% of American land is designated as "wilderness," where human beings are just visitors and nature can be nature. No person-made structures, no motors, no noise. We canoed to our campsite, which is surrounded by old-growth forest.
Some moments, we heard pure, beautiful silence. Other moments we heard wind rushes, loon calls, leaves rustling, and water lapping. The wilderness is immune to coronavirus, election season, and personal drama. It invites us to slow down, notice, and connect (to remember that we belong).
An old-growth forest takes care of itself. Fallen trees serve as compost. Saplings grow and thrive wherever they can. Earth is soft. As I walked on the forgiving ground, I realized the metaphor for life: just like forests are often managed, we humans manage, control, and curate our lives. The managed forests have hard pathways. Our managed lives can be inflexible and constricted.
Each step on the soft ground of old-growth forest reminded me to let go; to make room for life as-is; to appreciate each moment of being alive.
Wilderness is beautiful in its messiness. It's not tidy nor curated nor comfortable. Yet it's supportive and real and varied. We humans are also beautiful in our messiness. When we're not arranging our lives, we're living our lives—making mistakes and beginning anew; opening our minds to what's possible; opening our hearts to vulnerability, courage, and love.
