Writers, generally, are fond of highlighting the glories and shortfalls of other professions, but I find myself, usually without much exertion of effort on my behalf, writing about my profession in a manner with neither veneration nor morosity, but rather with a certain detachment that seeks to showcase my perception of life from my own point of view. It might lie in the fact that most, if not all, in my wonderful line of work come upon incessant periods devoid of motivation lifting neither pen nor paper; stretches of time when the very meaning of existence floats out of reach of any comprehensible universe and they are forced to look at others' lives for something to give their time purpose.
It was during one of these devilsend (as I figure it to be the opposite of godsend) times that I decided to explore the woods by my apartment. In the summer, when I moved here, the foliage clung tightly to each other as the undergrowth raced upwards, fed by rain as abundant as was in the days of that great patriarch Noah, to mingle with the branches of the trees towering above them. I, in my infinite ignorance of the fact then, concluded that there was little of interest beyond the ragged edge, but that changed with the coming of autumn and the withering of the once-lush weeds.
Soon after the leaves put up their yearly color-morphing show, they fell and left a void where an impenetrable wall of green had once stood. What fascinated me more, however, was that there seemed to be a path leading further into the woods; this path beckoned, teasing me to follow it to see where the rabbit hole leads to. The urge being greater than the natural resistance afforded me by the benevolent creator, I put on my jacket and boots and followed the cleared path into the leaf-carpeted belly of the woods.
Fear set in with apprehension and a certain degree of senselessness that I couldn’t explain. I followed the wide path for about one hundred yards; observing the woods with fixed intensity, tensing at the slightest rustle of the fallen leaves. I stopped, now and then, to take photographs of trees or discarded material that managed to wrestle my attention from my canopy of fear. There was an old, rusted iron bucket and a steel peg, still attached to a limp cable, which rattled its complaint at my attempts to dislodge it. There, also, was a smooth, mauve rubber ball still in decent condition, but I was hampered from taking it by a protective garb of twigs that had gathered themselves around it.
The greatest article of importance, however, lay at the edge of the woods; where the trees stop and the shrubbery continues as if unaware of their companions’ halt. There, on the path with its rear on woods side of the path and its fore in the clearing, was an old dump truck, its front wheels collapsed as if knelt in never-ending prayer, and its canary paint still alive despite invading swathes of brown rust. I took pictures of the discarded mammoth, wondering why it had been necessary to abandon it there.
I climbed on its muzzle and stood watching the descending countryside before me. I could see the land rolling and heaving into the far horizon, the sea of treetops at times broken by a building or steel tower on a distant hilltop. I looked over the truck again, noticing the high weeds growing in its massive bed, which still containing its last load, deemed worthless as the bearer on whose back it now waited out its eternal rest, and the iced-over pond on its roof, with its organisms busily milling about on its visible bottom. I took in as much of the truck as I could and it started me on a path of thought I dreaded to tread.
I began to think about the truck, its purpose, its demise, and its neglect; having served its purpose, it was now time to fade out of existence. I looked at the leaves on the floor, the weathered weeds, and the rotting, fallen tree limbs. They all, at one time, had been vibrant, alive and serving a purpose at which, I assume with measured certainty, they had been good. I, too, was the same as the death of autumn surrounding in as much as I would be here for a season and then fade off to make way for a newer generation. My earlier reprehension of the woods –my fear –fled the more I thought about the lessons the old dumper had brought to my attention.
I offered a prayer for the woods, the leaves, the truck, and the souls whose feet had trod that area eons before, and those that would eons after me. I offered condolences to the leaves for stepping on them; that was the way of life, and I, also, would one day be laid in the soil, feed the earth, and be tramped upon by nature. Yes, that was the way of life – to live out one’s purpose, then make way for a future that was, in every way, greater and equal to us. That purpose, in my case, was to be a mirror for the world; to have it see itself as it is, with all its blemishes as much as its beauty.
I walked back home deep in thought and lacking in fear as one can be without having breathed his last. I passed the spot of the twine-protected ball and its defenses did not seem impregnable as they had before, but I had no intention of disturbing its repose. The rusty bucked and the peg and its cable were also left in their peace. Things were a little clearer for me now and I had found the inspiration I had hoped to when I set off for my promenade, but it also came with a bonus lesson of life.
As I cleared the woods into the trimmed grass on my apartment’s grounds, I turned back towards the hibernating woods, whispered my thanks again, and let my eyes swim over the area that had terrified me before. Humbled and grateful, I covered the few yards to my door, entered and began to write. This is what I wrote.
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