I’ve always loved forests—not just for their beauty, but for the feeling they evoke. Step into a forest and the world changes. The light softens. The air cools. The sounds shift from the chaotic clatter of human life to something older, gentler, and more patient.
What draws me back, again and again, is the sense of possibility. No two walks are ever the same. One day it’s the flash of a songbird darting overhead. Another, it’s the thrill of catching a glimpse of a camouflaged gecko clinging to mottled bark—there all along, invisible until the light hits just right. Sometimes a trail disappears into a thicket, forcing me to choose a new route. Like life, a forest offers no map—just a tangle of paths and the promise of discovery.
But beyond the serendipity, there’s something else I find grounding: the intricate complexity of it all. Every tree, every fungus, every scurrying insect has a role to play. Some apparent, some hidden. Some thriving in the sun, others in the shadows. Together, they form a system that somehow works—messy, intricate, balanced. It reminds me that diversity isn’t just beautiful; it’s essential.
And then there’s the forest’s steady embrace. On the hottest days, its shade offers relief. When the wind howls across barren land, the forest softens the roar. It tempers extremes—not by resisting them, but by absorbing them. There’s a kind of wisdom in that.
I think that’s why forests feel like a metaphor for life. They remind me that the path isn’t always clear, that we all play a part—seen or unseen—and that sometimes the best we can do is find a place where the world feels a little less harsh, where we can breathe, listen, and simply be.
For me, that place has always been the forest.
