The woods invite me into themselves so that I might be drawn out of myself. And if I have never engaged in such an exchange, I will find myself a man so full of myself that I am nothing but myself. And that is a terribly small thing to be.

It’s not the quiet ‘in’ the woods. Rather, it’s the quiet ‘of’ the woods. For I don’t want quiet to be ‘in’ me. Like the woods, I want it to be ‘of’ me. And I have found that few things can instill that in me like the woods can.

The sure path to tomorrow was plotted in a manger and paved on a cross. And although this sturdy byway is mine for the taking, I have incessantly chosen lesser paths. And maybe it is time to realize that Christmas is a promise that I can walk through the world and never get lost in the woods.

Each summer’s night the woods abound with sounds. And I always thought how wonderful it was that nature sings even when it’s asleep.