In the forest we were explorers, we were outcasts, we made our friendships and kept them. In the forest we built hideouts, we talked about forbidden knowledge, we talked about the biology of a woman’s body and we wondered about the limits of the universe. In the small forest we had in our town, we imagined it to be much bigger and since it played such a vital role in our lives, it was.
As teenagers my friends and I would smoke cigarettes in the forest. This was a big deal. Cigarettes were hard to acquire during those awkward, pubescent years. Mainly, we would steal them from our parents or buy them for outrageous prices from older kids. I remember the first cigarettes my friends and I smoked were ones I hand rolled from my fathers stash. They were sloppy and limp. We’d spit tobacco leaves out after every drag. Not the smoothest smoke. Regardless, it didn’t stop us from being hooked. Smoking cigarettes in the forest became sort of a badge of honor among my friends and I. Watching the smoke curl around our faces, sitting atop a fallen tree by a stream, nothing could touch our sense of cool confidence.
As we grew older, we’d still visit the forest frequently, with different types of smoke curling around our face and a case of beer in tow. We had a preferred spot, a nice clearing with ample seating and a fire pit. Nearly every weekend during the warm seasons we’d gather there to alter our reality. There’d be jokes told, stories embellished, truths confessed and questions posed unanswerable. We were strange that way, always talking about open-ended ideas, wondering about philosophical possibilities. Of course, we didn’t know much. Nietzsche, Sartre, Heidegger, Kant, these names were not part of our vocabulary. Yet, we knew enough to spend hours entangling ourselves in a lively conversation.
The forest was our sanctuary, our escape, the gathering grounds of our tribe. I miss it and everything it represented.
At This Moment 