There’s the clinking of glasses on New Years Eve amidst the laughing and cheering of friends and family.  Fireworks shower the dark sky with streams of light in celebration of the New Year.  There's the streamers, the confetti and glitter, the games and the fellowship.  The festivities from last night fills you with a sense of wonder.  Another year past.  Another spring, another summer, another fall, another Christmas.  While sometimes it can be hard to let go of precious seasons in life and moments you wish could last forever, there’s so much excitement for the coming year as the thought of new stories and new beginnings unravel through your mind.  

I walked through the trees mindful of each step I took- I dared not wake the trolls.  “Close your eyes, but keep your mind wide open,” I could hear my grandfather speaking.  I’ve never seen a troll before.  But my grandfather knew them well.  Each time he tried to enter, a riddle they would tell.  

I always found it interesting the way grandfather spoke of the woods.  As if they knew all of his secrets and could claim him as their own.  “Do the woods really know you?” I’d ask grandfather ever so often.  “Yes,” he’d reply.  “To my very core they know me.”

How peculiar, I used to think, of my grandfather and the woods.  And yet- I wished the woods would befriend me and know me just as well. 

I walk through the forest.  It breathes.  I listen. 

The raven wanders off to its favorite branch, eyes open, taking in all within his gaze.  The river is awake, the sun dancing on its waters.  I can hear it moving- rushing, rushing, rushing.  I strain my ears to hear the almost unbelievable sound of flowers singing.   I sit there, as motionless as a stump, until the snake slithers by, my appearance gone unnoticed.  Lost in the sight of the trees, misty in an autumnal fog.  The insects chirp and the sun seeps through the leaves glowing on the path before my feet.    

Then I see him.  Mr. Fox. 

I recall grandfather mentioning him.  “Beware of the fox and his cunning eyes.  His words, though flattery surrounds them, are a trap dressed up to make you feel clever and wise.” 

The fox lie still, asleep in its den.  A smile plays on his lips, as if he possesses knowledge of that which many do not.  Perhaps he is dreaming.  Dreaming of what I wonder?            

I move forward again, treading lightly on my feet.  I wander what would happen if the fox were to awake.  What questions would he ask? Would he make me feel a fool? Or rather clever and quick witted?  Curiosity consumes me, daring me to wake him from his peaceful slumber. 

My grandfather read to me a quote by a man in a history book once: “The cunning of the fox is as murderous as the violence of a wolf.”  What makes the fox so cunning I wonder?  Deceitfully crafty, and full of guile perhaps.  As murderous as the violence of—no.  I didn’t believe it. 

I grabbed a nearby stone and threw it at the sleeping animal.  I woke the fox.  

Its eyes gazed into mine, astute and duplicitous.  He brings himself to standing, his narrow face shrewd, his ears pointed back in a challenging sort of way. 

I stand there, staring into its beady eyes.  They taunt me, saying, “How sly do you think you are?  Do you think yourself wise?”  I doubt myself in the moment, unsure of what wisdom I attain.  The fox’s eyes are dark, still watching my own.                      

The fox encircles me, as if asking, why did you dare awaken me?  He nudges me with his nose, leading me in the direction of forest I’ve never ventured before.  He moves swiftly, and I struggle to keep up, but I want to know so desperately where he is headed. 

The forest grows darker, this stretch of wood becoming thicker and more concealed.   Then the fox stops and I stand still, focusing in on where I am.  In front of me I can see it, the bridge covered in moss and the river rushing by.  Mr. Fox looks me in the eye. 

I am suddenly stricken by fear.  “The trolls are there. I must go back,” I say hesitantly.  The fox shakes his head.  “Don’t be afraid of the trolls,” he says, “awaken them and they’ll tell you anything you wish to know.” 

I stare at the bridge.  What could they possibly say? 

“Come now, adventurous stranger, you know you want to wake them. Don’t let it drive you mad.  The answers you seek are within your reach.”   

 I find myself moving closer, the fox’s mischievous grin stretches wider.  Grandfather met the trolls.  He heard their riddles and knew of their ways. 

I remember when he told me, “They’ll cheat you out of your wits.  They can steal the light in your eyes, or the breath right out of your lungs- don’t ever fall prey to their ways.”  

Fear’s icy breath closes in on me.  Its sleeted fingers threaten to lock around my throat. 

“That’s it,” says the fox, luring my feet to step closer.  But grandfather’s voice is louder.

“My dear, a time will surely come when you must choose between what is easy and what is right.”  I squeeze my eyes shut.  Fear scatters throughout my body, itching to take control.                       

“The cunning of the fox is as murderous as the violence of a wolf.” 

My eyes fly open and my mind is instantly awake.  I run.   

My vision is in a blur as the sight of trees and moss, bark and everything in between race past my eyes as I rapidly make my way back towards the entrance of the woods.  Doubt consumes my thoughts and I am ashamed of awaking the fox.  But I am so grateful for Grandfather's words of wisdom echoing in my head, challenging me.     

I slow my pace, finding my way to the river.  Its waters bubble with delight.  The lull of a flute murmurs in my ears and I linger, listening to its sweet song.  The sun is on its way to sleep and I rest for a moment, taking in a breath.  The ground beneath my feet feels gentle, its dark skirts arranged so tenderly, its pockets full of moss and small creatures making it their home.  My thoughts drift light as moths among the thick canopy of ancient trees.   

A crunch of leaves and I tense; but then my shoulders relax and I begin to feel at ease as I see the doe, with gentleness in its eyes and wisdom on her lips. 

“She’s wise, that one,” I hear my grandfather whisper.  She stands there, a softness in her posture and knowledge of the wood’s deepest secrets in her eyes.  Her fawn lay asleep on the moss next to her, his polished cleft small ebony hooves stretched out.  A pretty thing, the dappled child of the deer.  I stare, unsure of what to say. 

“Courage is found in unlikely places isn’t it, my dear?” the voice of the doe is soft. “Be careful how you live,” she cautions. “You must be wise, making the most of every opportunity, for the days ahead are laced with vile things a heart such as yours should not want to partake in.” 

Her wisdom floods me with warmth.  She drinks from the river.  

“How can I be wise?” I ask with uncertainty. 

She lifts her head slightly, her eyes meeting mine. She carries herself with such elegance and grace.  “No great wisdom can be attained without sacrifice, my dear.  Only speak of what you know, only act on truth and love, and treat others the way in which you would like to be treated.”  She smiles.   

It reminded me of something my grandfather once said.  “Know that the sharpest weapon of all is not intimidation or strength, or even proving to be better than someone else- but rather kindness and gentleness.  You must have love, and you must do so with courage.  Knowledge without love is nothing, for knowledge puffs up, but love edifies.  Therefore to be wise you must understand the key to growth.”  The little fawn awakens and rises on its new legs.  Then off they go, leaping and stumbling between the stems of the white trees.

In that moment I thought of all the ways gentleness has served me.  The calmness it brings to my body and soul and also to the others around me.              

I stood there, looking intently at the old pine tree next to me.  It ages so gracefully.  I sit on the giant stump next to it wondering what grand tree once stood where I sat.   

Everything in the forest has its time.  Where one thing falls, another grows.  Maybe not what was there before, but something new and wonderful all the same.  The forest is a story all in its own.  We are both stories, leaping off the pages, our wings ready to take flight expanding towards the horizon of a grand new adventure.  The woods have my name carved in its ancient bones.  I’ve seen its mysteries unraveled before my eyes and I feel its presence in my soul.       

They say in order to grow you must learn from your mistakes, and admit there’s still so much more to learn.  I understand now, dear grandfather.   

The owl hoots its last goodbye and I leave the woodland kingdom.   

        Spring is a time of rebirth and growth.  The season awakens and breathes the fresh scent of petrichor as the rain wipes the air clean.  Water droplets nourish the roots of flowers breaking from their buds as they begin to bloom.  Green begins to fill bare branches and vast fields. The early morning dew glistens on the budding foliage.  Nuanced aromas gently rise and sprits its floral perfume in the air. 

        Spring is a time for picnics and pretty dresses on a Sunday afternoon, accompanied by soft smiles and subsequent laughter.  Exploring new places and creating memories on spontaneous adventures.  To lay in a field of lavender and stare up at the celestial blue, creating dreamscapes in your mind.  A time for curiosity to flourish. To wander and chase fluttering pieces of poetry.  

        There was a little girl who loved spring. A spirited child with dreams too big to lose.  Her eyes were aglow with curiosity and wander.  She spent her days reading too many books, picking wildflowers and hiking many old trails with her wild bunch of siblings in tow.     

        This little girl is inherently a dreamer.  It was something infused in her by her father and her mother.  Two adventurous souls turned one in a journey of seeking love and truth and living life to its fullest.  Truly, her parents were her biggest inspirations.  She always stood in such awe of the way they carried themselves, with such confidence and determination.  She saw dreams grow big in each of their eyes, but witnessed also how they came together as a team to make their dreams become a reality.  

        She was raised in a home of eager explorers, explorers of the mundane and the profound.  Adventure, exploring, wandering– whichever you wish to call it – made up her blood and bones. 

        But it was the springtime that filled her with the strongest sense of action.  The urgency to step into the unknown despite the many fears or failures lurking in the shadows.  Perhaps it was the way the season captured the essence of blooming, of becoming. The way it illustrates a tale told of beauty and growth.  It pushes her to spread her wings and take flight towards the skies of courage and perseverance.       

        She lay in the field of wildflowers and closes her eyes and suddenly she is dancing in the ballroom of her castle in the sky. 

        It is late in the night as a young woman, wide awake with excitement shining in her eyes finds herself in deep discussion with people full of just as much passion and energy as she. People eager to make a difference, figuring out ways to plant seeds of truth in their community.  Tears prick her eyes as she feels the presence of the Holy Spirit fill her and shivers find their way up her spine as she is constantly reminded to “be the one.”            

        In another instance it is early morning as she sits in front of an open window, the sun seeping in and the curtains billowing in the wind as the breeze shuffles through.  She wears a white night dress, a little baby with a little round face half hers and half the one she loves, laying in its bassinet next to her.  She sits still, a pen in her hand and a journal set before her- and she writes.   

        She was back in the field, the clear blue sky staring back down at her.  A smile crossed her lips as she felt the wind prick her skin.  A storm was brewing so she heard, but that’s not what she felt.  It was adventure on the current of the wind and passion flowed through her like a rushing river.  She didn’t want to become a slave to fear of the unknown, but rather embrace further exploration of who she is and who she was meant to be.  What did she have to lose?  She’d traveled many dirt roads before, crossed many restless seas, but within her lay an urgency to explore further still.  To chase her dreams and passions and embrace the turmoil as it comes, but yet gain the reward of an awesome adventure.  

        The last kiss of spring touched her lips, and whispered, “step into the unknown.”