I didn't realize that I was a forest snob until I moved to Paris. Manicured gardens with trees neatly planted in rows can be very appealing to the eye, however, they do little for my heart. I was craving the unruliness of sun-seeking branches and the disorderly conduct of roots left to their own devices of survival. I finally found Nature, left to her own design, in Fontainebleau. There is a large preserve surrounded by quiet little towns just forty minutes South of Paris. I packed up a picnic lunch for Peter and I, put together what little hiking gear I had brought to Paris, and headed out for a day of peaceful ease.
We rambled over leaf-strewn pathways, through brown meadows, and under the quiet damp of evergreens. I found a fort, no doubt created by local kids, and climbed inside. It was precariously constructed with fallen branches and boasted two stories. I was reminded of the big bay tree in the backyard of my first home. It was my jungle gym, space ship, living room, and best friend. One day I was betrayed by a rotten branch and fell three feet onto my back, my breath escaping from my lungs with a vengeful force. I cried as I slowly walked into the house to be consoled. It was the first, and most lasting, stab in the back from a trusted friend.
My mind shifted back and forth from my present foray in the woods to memories of all the forests I have known before; a thread of passive perception binding all the trees together. They are our mothers and fathers. They hold our secrets and dreams. They nourish my soul with their history.
|  | 
|
