A Quiet Place: A Week Alone in the Woods

For several years I had been intrigued by Thoreau’s Walden. I purchased the book at a library sale and began reading. While Emerson’s introduction was enjoyable, I found myself struggling to read Thoreau’s words. For a fiction reader the sheer detail became tedious. It sat on my bedside nightstand for months. I could not fully embrace the idea of cutting oneself off from society almost completely. Yet, as an introvert, the concept of solitude and contemplation never left me.

Fast forward: much had changed in my life. I was divorced. I had lost friends. I had gained new friends. I was unemployed after working at the same job for over 17 years and I was moving to another state.

In between the end of my lease and my move I had a couple of weeks. So, a dear friend, who had been a blessing to me and loved me through some hard things, offered me the use of her cabin which sat beside a pond in the woods. Plans were to stay for a week and then spend some time with my kids, my mom and my sister.

My friend had a busy work week and was unable to spend any time with me . As I prayed I felt the leading of the Holy Spirit to stay put for the week, pray, and listen. I had plenty of food and Thelma had left fruit, cereal, ice and water in the cabin. I was set. And so, like Thoreau, I was alone in the woods.

A Week Alone

Day One

It is hot and sticky, almost unbearably so. I hear thunder in the distance. It rumbles like a jet breaking the sound barrier. Again and again. The wind begins to blow. At first sultry and sweltering. It reminds me of a blast of air upon opening the oven door to pull out the cake which has been baking for the past hour.

The water on the pond ripples gently. The air cools, trees bow, dark clouds hover. The thunder softens to rolling rumbles. It feels as though this may be one of those storms which promise rain that never comes.

I am having a difficult time allowing my body, mind, and spirit to “Be Still”. I am distracted by the small hairs upon my chin which menopause brought with it. I am wrong about the promise never coming. The clouds begin to weep-little droplets at first, then steady with waves of downpour. The droplets create tiny ripples upon the pond too numerous to count.

It will be quite some time before I see rain like this again. I am told the prairies outside the foothills of North Central Colorado seldom see the showers and rains like these of Deep East Texas. So, I leave my shelter to stand in the rain. The boughs of the tall short leaf pines break the droplets for me. My minds tells me this is silly. “Go back to the porch!”, it says. But I stand as tears mingle with the water running down my face.

This rain is a gift in this moment-from God-to me, His daughter. He knows how I love the rain. He knows how I love to stand in the rain, face lifted to the sky, water pouring into my scalp. It is cleansing. It is freedom. My heart lifts a grateful song unto my King. “Thank you, Father, for this gift.”

A mist rises as the rain slows,the coolness of the rain soothing the heat upon the stillness of the pond. A woodpecker hammers at a tree a stones throw away. Birds sing. Crows call. Thunder rolls softly. The rain falls gently now and a black salamander plays in a small puddle left upon the dock. I close my eyes and breathe and cry. I don’t know why, but it feels good. It feels right. It feels lighter-much like the heavy cloud must feel after releasing its burden. It is cleansing and refreshing-just as the earth must feel with each and every drop upon its parches soil.

Later the breeze is cool and the heaviness in the air is gone. I listen to the droplets falling from the trees onto the tin roof. The frogs aren’t croaking so much as they are making rolling sounds in the back of their throat. The birds are calling and the crickets cry.