My Reflections Are Dark

My reflections are dark, in this room of many books and precious things, dark as the
mahogany that holds my treasured books. I realize they are only precious to me…but
precious nonetheless.

Who wants rocks and animal skulls carefully cleaned to gleam
white in their mortifying smiles? Who cares for the packed shelves, slightly foxed
antique books two deep, on obscure subjects most would not even find diverting in a
passing way? Why would anyone find pleasure in the bits and bobs, little treasures from
my excursions into the wild, to faraway places? I seem always come home with pockets
full of rocks and flowers pressed betwixt the pages of some old book gleaned from a
church bazaar whilst wandering in the North York Moors. What does it matter to
anyone else?

Well it matters to me; these are the treasures of a lifetime. All acquired
lost in the woods, one with the moment at hand. I do not think I will ever make sense to
most folks, but if I could make sense to myself….

Life is mysterious; it is like a forest- from far off it seems a unity. It can be
comprehended, described, but upon closer inspection it begins to separate…to break
into light and shadow, the density blinds one. Within there is no form, only prodigious
detail that reaches everywhere: exotic sounds, spills of sunlight, verdant foliage, fallen
trees, small beasts that flee the sound of a twig snap, insects, silence, and even epiphytes
and flowers. The detail is more than enough to distract. The vertical of trees, the crazed
silhouette of fine branches on the sky, pools of small life, the endless game trails that
lead to nowhere….

All of this, dependent and closely woven, is deceiving. We are layer upon layer like the
noble forest. There are two kinds of life, there is the one you believe you are living, and
there is the other one so subtle it cannot be taken in. It is the other that causes the
trouble. The other we long to see….