I’m seduced by dead leaves, hard rocks, and naked trees. It’s no new thing but is a lasting thing. Apparently, however, it’s an odd thing. Few I know are as beguiled. Fewer still embrace the starkness of winter’s alluring analogous neutral grays and browns. So what makes me curiously different?
As a kid I’d lose myself in the neglected field on the other side of the stonewall boundary of our groomed yard. All manner of weeds left to their potential and laden with promising clingy pollen and sticky weedy things towered over my head. Forging my way through the thick growth released aromas of stem juice. It was acrid and foreign yet familiar. I preferred autumn for exploring because there were way less bugs. Often I’d hollow out a spot like a dog tromping down a nest to lay low and consider my surroundings. A world alien to our manicured plot of land it begged me to explore and became one of my secret havens.
There was another micro environment even more enticing than the untamed field. Along the steep walk up Elizabeth Street on the way to grammar school was a wooded parcel, an unofficial preserve between an otherwise continuum of houses. No more than 300 feet long it held all the fascination of the 100 Acre Wood. A path not far in from road’s edge led up a slight grade winding through low boulders, wild bushes, deciduous trees and a cedar or two. Situated on the top of ledge the trail offered a loftier vantage point to the world than road grade, especially in seasons when leaves were slim to none. I was magnetized by the ledge, meandering path and woodland flora. They offered oodles more intrigue than our curried green and level acre yard. I’m not against neatness, tidiness is a well developed muscle in my traits portfolio, but like the inexplicable lure of free flowing grasses, especially tawny ones, this mini natural habitat pulled me in.
Perhaps the taunts brother number two dished out about my crooked mow lines when our family of five attacked the growing grass, each of us equipped with a lawnmower like a lawn service battalion, didn’t help my appreciation of a groomed lawn. More likely, and what I’ve come to believe, is that the same sun particles that rocks, trees, wild grasses and I are made of vibrate at a higher, palpable and inextricable frequency within me. How else to explain the camaraderie and belonging I owned traversing that snippet of woodland wild? To my abiding connection to woodlands and fields then and still today?
When I’m immersed in a winter’s wood with undulating elevations, rock ledge and carpet of cast off leaves, life is reduced to a simplistic beauty and belonging. I am at home. The varied vein like structure of every tree’s crown, similar to my own internal network of
arteries, veins and capillaries, is in plain view. Subtle variations of grays and browns blend into a harmony of complex shading with economy of color. Sunshine and sky easily pour through the unadorned boughs, the sunlight highlighting and contrasting the naked trees and a cerulean blue sky complimenting the gray trunks and limbs. Distant horizons, otherwise blocked by summer’s limiting cloak of solid chlorophyll, and a complex depth of vertical shapes are
visible deep into the wood. Pesky gnats, mosquitos and ticks are inactive. The dead leaves crinkle and crunch under foot, a mysteriously endearing sound. Lingering leaves, bloodless yet still clinging to their limbs, as with American Beech and oak, rustle their swan song in the wind. Skeleton leaves and those with curious colonies of holes give pause to ponder their grace in death. Cool air amplifies my sense of being while the hardness of rock ledge reminds how ancient the earth is and its permanence long after I become dust. It’s extraordinarily humbling and honest and as real as anything else I encounter, save the mountains of the West. I’m not diminished but rather filled with quiet awe and peace.
Fortunate to live in Connecticut on nearly 10 acres of wood atop a rise with no view of neighbors, I’ve become keenly aware of this preference of mine that is atypical, where winter’s wood resonates over that of summer. Summer’s keeps much of its self hidden behind its thick cloak of green. Open space is swallowed and the eye is deprived its ability to take in a wide expanse of detail. Mild claustrophobia sets in. Knowing the scientific benefits of summer’s chlorophyll-heavy wood doesn’t sway my heart or the fact that without the leaves of green there would be no leaves of brown to morph into skeleton or hole-riddled curiosities. No captivating rustling of a dried forest floor. I love what I love.
The transition to spring is fast approaching, poised to knock on the door. I’ll be all right for awhile into its early stages. The tiny buds popping out will be small enough my views won’t be utterly inhibited. Their variations of fresh green and light sienna will be like tiny fairy lights adding a hint of sparkle and intrigue to the woods. Same in mid fall with the woods’ half fallen leaves, those remaining attached wearing warm, varied colors other than 
uninterrupted green.
Love it or not, it is what it is. Intended or not, nature, it turns out is fair. In Connecticut, half of the year the rest of humanity is allowed their time slot to enjoy a chlorophyll cloaked wood while the remaining half I’m able to revel in the reality of the atypical winter wood I cherish. And oh, isn’t it good my naked wood?
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