Cross the Creek

A few miles from my house is this huge park acting as a nature preserve. There are dog parks and picnic tables in there and a huge lake with various creeks branching off. It’s the closest I have to forest here, where I can recharge myself and forget about anything. The sad thing is, it’s so fake. The trees were planted there by man and there are huge pathways of rough pitch black pavement slicing through the trees. It really ruins the moment. To get any sense of wilderness you have to go off the path and into the thickets (trying not to step on snakes and lizards and spiders along the way) way far away from the path. Cross the creek where the frogs squeal as you pass, come out the other side and you’re in the sanctuary. Trees stretch far above your head and one acts as a sort of tent, the branches coming down around you in a dome fashion. Here is where everything stops. The constant static, regret, fear, anxiety. Everything. The only thing left is you and the earth who at this point are intertwined. This is where I really call home. I don’t want to leave.