In the book I’m currently reading about time travel, there are rules around timeline editing so that no one can edit another timeline to sway the evolution of history.
In one scene, a group of time travelers hand out zines, trying to seed a concept into consciousness to make a ripple effect.
I like to think that this column could be this, and the intention of this timeline edit is to keep humans open to the mysticism of nature and expand advancements in technology to be symbiotic with nature.
I recently went away into the wild, pressing moss against my bare feet as I peered at reishi silently growing on a rotten log nestled in a damp cedar grove as a slug napped on a cluster of turkey tail and the trees dripping in usnea’s wisdom built the silence. I walked down through the gentle forest maze to the river, bare feet careful not to step on tender miniature mushrooms, protruding ever so gently from moss- and fern-scattered floor.
The morning dew, fresh reminiscence of the dream-saturated veil of night, dripped from the cedar branches as I intentionally let them brush across my face, allowing my skin to touch the cool pooled droplets of condensed clouds now fully saturated with the tangible vibratory field of old-growth forests.
I reached the water shore and submerged my feet below the glassy top, instantly feeling the sensation of powdered crystal entering my feet from the stream, the electricity cushioned upon the previously undisturbed but now foggy decomposed forest sludge lining the river bed.
No sound was audible other than those made of elemental matrix, sounds that seemed to taste like the trees were dripping liquid gold onto the forest floor and me.
I instantly felt a part of me being fed, that only the old-growth ecosystems of rotting wood spooring fungi, sporadic western sword ferns, and wet moss can reach. As if a secret key to heaven opened and a hidden part of my heart felt soft again simply by taking off my shoes and stepping into the mysteries of the wild.
I think the depth of one’s appreciation of nature is the depth in which they can listen, to be able to become completely empty and then let it fill them.
There are few places on earth where we can trust so deeply to receive and know that what comes back to our invitation of intimacy will be pure tones. Where we can open ourselves, unfurl our energy bodies, and sit in our hearts knowing that what comes back will quench our souls, yet in the calm of the forest, how can we not soften?
For so many universal truths are laid tucked away amongst moss and fern, decomposing under forest leaves and rippling through crystalline streams, waiting for you to quiet your heart, take off your shoes, and humbly press your soul into the forest floor to listen.