The Pine Forest

I’ve been working on a writing workshop this month, all about creative nonfiction. It’s been so fun to test my writing skills, to deepen my writing skills, and I thought to share some of my work with you. Here’s one piece:

I close my eyes, and feel the gentle shifting beneath me. The platform made of 2x4 boards creaks slightly as the wind pushes at the trees. There is a soft groaning, as though in protest, against the disturbance.

I breathe in deeply. The smell of this forest is like home.

That smell. What is it? Like comfort on the air. A warmth to breathe in, right to my belly. A comfort inside. A softness.

The wind comes through the tall pine trees, the soft whooshing as the trees lean toward each other. That same pattern, day in, day out.

I open my eyes to see the tops above me, so far above me. They tower, so slim and bare from the forest floor to their end in the sky.

This is my safe place. My place to come to imagine, to dream. Far enough from home that I don’t have to be me anymore, but I get to be who I want. I get to be whatever life I want.

But still not far enough away that I don’t get to be me. The closeness of home is there when I’m ready for it again.

It’s not that I don’t want to be me, but just that to dream is to live. The possibilities of life are endless.

My back is weighted against the uneven boards. The boards that were haphazardly nailed to the four trees. An almost perfect square.

This forest is made of perfect rows of trees, as though each and every seed was planted painstakingly. With care. The ground dips in between the rows, rising again to meet the base of the next row of trees. I keep my eyes to the floor, feeling the gentle incline and decline again; like waves in the ocean.

The floor of the forest is covered with pine needles, a soft brownish-orangeish color. This blanket of needles adds a layer of quiet to the forest. Making you pause, think twice before yelling. Creating the need to listen harder, to hear the soft whispers of the woods.

I brush my hand against a tree as I walk past it. It scratches, rough against the softness of my palm.

There is safety here.

Strength.

These trees that are old and wisened by the winds and the rains. These trees that have endured storms and sun.

They stand still, as though they’ve always been here.

The path that we take to get to these forests is always the same. The tell tale sign of matted grass, showing exactly where we are meant to go.

Testing myself as I built this fort. What strength do I have in me? Testing that board – can it hold me now? What am I capable of? Using every bit of strength to pound each nail in.

And the time that it broke, and I found myself flat on my back - the wind knocked out of me.

I laid there for a while, looking at the sky, not daring to move. 

Once again, my gaze turns to the light that I can see above me, through the trees. For a moment, there’s only the forest and me.

Breathing in the wind.