We went walking for no real reason, just to be in the fresh autumn air. After a while of gardens and peaceful fields, we were about to turn back for home when we came upon an unexpected forest.
We entered, of course. Never mind being tired and wanting to have a cup of tea. The forest does not call, she is too witchy and dreaming for that. But her shadows, her whispery secrets, and the lush dark perfume of her body, are so lovely, they can not be ignored.
When I walk in a forest I realise we have our language all wrong. There is not one world, there are millions - the worlds of individual forests, meadows, attics, bookish girls, kauri trees, ancestral homes, and so on. The forest I grew up in, with its wet darkness, cicada shells, and old magical river, may have had similar trees as the forest of these photographs, but its spirit was completely different.
So we visited with this forest, and one of us went one way, and the other went another way, and when we met again back at the start we each had different tale to tell, as if we had experienced different forests, although at no time had we gone more than fifty feet from each other. That seems right, though. Within every world, like every woman, there are countless songs and stories. What we experience so often depends on what we open our eyes and hearts to notice.
I walked a calm, sorcerous world that day. I walked the heart of a forest. I wonder what she experienced of me.