I saw a fully-grown man in the park today,
running frantically trying to catch the last few remaining
leaves as they fell from the trees.

The wind took most of them,
but he caught one and stared at it in amazement for a moment
as I walked by,
before dropping it and running to catch
another.

I think our school should have a bus sick system.

I believe that everyone should learn to get car sick.

In my opinion, getting car sick is an enjoyable thing to do. I  beleive everyone should learn to get car sick. It’s fun, fast, and easy. All ya’ have to do is eat alot before the trip, also sit in the back seat. Wobble your head alot. Well, you’re half way there, ask if you can stop at a gas station. Get alot of junk food. Eat it all. Wobble around some more. Ask to stop at another gas staition, get 7 cans of pop. Drink it all. Shake your head. Ask sit in front seat. Well, your almost there. By this time you should have a stomach ache, head ache, and your eyes should hurt. Keep on holding it down. Well, by now you should roll down your window find a young couple and let it out. You should be there by now. Remember it’s fun, fast, and easy!

While driving on forest roads with my last five dollars in gas, the car kicks up dust from the gravel below and the smell is thick and stale, almost like an old musty basement. The sun is setting and the trees cut up through a huge sky that fades from dark blue to purple to orange. Soon the stars will show and their light will bend through the clouds above, effortlessly reaching us from almost immeasurable distances.

Just past Stockfarm Bridge, I bring the car to a stop. I leave it idling calmly near the smooth, dark flow of the Chippewa River, and walk back to the bridge. The bridge itself is long and narrow, set atop ancient pilings, its deep brown wooden road surface smoothed from decades of use. There aren’t many of these old bridges left, even on the other remote forest roads. The structure is wide enough for only one vehicle, and too much traffic at once would likely cause it to splinter and plunge into the river below.

These antiquated bridges and roads are remnants of life years ago, when the land was still being stripped clean of its lumber. They were arteries from the heart of the forest, feeding humanity’s hungry expansion. Now they are neglected by most travelers, but they remain as a testament to the way so many men struggled to make a living, cutting down and hauling the huge trees out along dirt roads.

Tonight, no one else is here. There is likely no other human being for many miles. There are no power lines, no cell phone towers or other obtrusions. If not for the pines swaying and creaking with the wind and random unexplained sounds in the distance, the forest would be completely calm and still. Of course, the forest does not desire to explain itself or its noises. It simply exists, though continually changing, unable or unwilling to express itself through more than creaks and crashes.

No one else is here, and I am waiting to capture a certain feeling. It cannot be replicated on command, nor can it be described in much detail, because although it is universal in experience, the details are unique to each individual. It may or may not happen for me tonight, but the conditions seem right. I am searching for the feeling of being alive.

I do not feel truly alone in the forest at night. My senses awaken; all movements and sounds are exaggerated by the dulling of nightfall, and a certain connection can be felt. Although isolated from humanity, the connection that I feel is overriding and strong. A person may be reminded of late night childhood pseudo-philosophical conversations: We are one with the Universe, one with Everything. We are always connected despite our best efforts of isolation.

After the sun sets, the stars come out and the temperature falls. Half a moon rises, cratered from epochs of unfeeling abuse. The river below flows quietly, wide and slow, and gradually changing the landscape by moving the dark, loamy earth. It is languid in its role of erosion, if not completely uncaring and unknowing.

There are now night sounds throughout the darkened forest. Nocturnal animals are living out their night lives, and the general feeling shifts from peaceful to slightly eerie. There is not much to do but listen to the forest and look around, trying to find something real to focus on. Many shapes are blurred, lacking contrast and detail, but an overall composite of the forest can be drawn.

The ground cover is dense, as are the tall, slender pines penetrating through it. If trees could want, perhaps they would want the unobtainable feeling of being part of the sky. They reach down into the soil and have something firm to grab, to feel; they reach upwards but can never grab the stars or do more than sway with the wind.

The sky above me is so huge that I get the human feeling of being small and utterly insignificant. There are more stars than people, and there is more distance to cover between them than all of humanity combined will ever travel. Most will never travel the world. Many will never stare into a night sky and truly let their mind roam.

The experience of being alone in the forest at night is intense. There are layers of thoughts and emotions as my imagination fills the gaps of what my senses perceive. My mind is left to blend the abstract imagination with concrete reality, and as the night darkens, the line between the two shifts quickly out of focus.

The sound of light rain hitting the trees above becomes prominent, as does my realization of the declining temperature. My senses have fully awakened and work to gather as much information as possible, and the night is as dark as it will
become. Every sudden sound is startling because such a lack of light means no sources can be pinpointed. It is now very easy for my imagination to fill in the details, and every sound becomes a predatory animal stalking slowly through the shadows. Every bush or tree or stump becomes nondescript but dangerous, and the wind causes distant branches to move in threatening ways.

While the fear itself is real, it is a fear of something imagined and not real. It is extremely rare to see an animal searching for prey, even at night deep in the forest. The bears and wolves of this forest are not animals, they are merely branches moving with the wind. The sounds of the forest are similarly not of anything inherently dangerous, but rather trees creaking in the wind and the occasional brush snapping underfoot as a deer wanders by.

The landscape itself is not very dangerous, being that many predatory animals have been hunted to the brink of extinction. Yet my mind will not allow a feeling of peace and calm, and my imagination continues to fill in the bleak details. A battle between rational and irrational is being waged, with the rational mind temporarily keeping the imagination in check, but always with no clear winner.

After I hear a thunderous crash, my mind is quickly snapped back to reality. I do not know what the sound was, but it was very close. My heart races and I dash for the bridge, car still waiting. I had not wandered far, but I am out of breath. As I begin my escape, contemplating the noise, I realize that for one brief moment I captured the feeling I had sought out by coming to the forest: I felt alive.

As the months and years wear on, taking their toll on our minds and our bodies, it becomes important—even vital—to remind ourselves of what it means to be alive; what it feels like to know, unassailably, that we are truly alive. This feeling is not easy to capture, nor is it simple to explain. Yet it remains significant, because someone who never thinks of the implications of being alive—who never desires to truly feel anything—is little more than a walking zombie, drifting through their days with little conscious awareness.

The feeling of being alive comes easily in the forest after nightfall, with our senses alert and working to gather as much information as possible. As cars pass down this old gravel road, the smell in the air is thick and musty, almost like an old basement; perhaps evoking distant childhood memories of someone’s grandparents’ basement where the kids would play hide and seek on long summer days. As the sun sets, the trees cut up through the huge, open sky that fades from dark blue to purple to orange. Once the stars begin to show, their light bends through the clouds above, effortlessly reaching the earth from almost immeasurable, unthinkable distances.

The car calmly idles on Stockfarm Bridge, resting above the smooth, dark flow of the Chippewa River. The bridge is long and narrow, set atop huge, ancient pilings, and its deep brown road surface smoothed from decades of use. Its structure is wide enough for only one vehicle, and too much traffic at once would likely cause the bridge to splinter and plunge into the river below. Stark thoughts like this help remind us we’re alive, as do thoughts of those who traveled these desolate roads so many years ago—the loggers and the lost, wary travelers. These antiquated bridges and roads are remnants of life years ago, when the land was still being stripped clean of its lumber. These roads were arteries from the heart of the forest, feeding humanity’s hungry expansion. The roads now remain dormant, and rutted, with the gravel compacted from decades of rainfall and the seldom passing of a car. The feeling of being alive comes naturally knowing that we are here, now, actively observing the world and thinking these thoughts, thoughts of those who came to the forest so long ago; those who are no longer with us.

If not for the pines swaying and creaking with the wind, the forest would be completely calm and still. There are no other human beings for many miles, nor are there any power lines, radio towers or other obtrusions. All movements and sounds are exaggerated by the dulling of nightfall in the forest, and the night sounds of nocturnal animals are nearly overwhelming. The ground cover is dense, as are the tall, slender pines penetrating through it. If trees could want, perhaps they would want the unobtainable feeling of being part of the sky. They reach down into the soil and have something firm to grab, to feel; they reach upwards but can never grab the stars or do more than sway with the wind. As the trees are alive, we are alive as well, and like the trees we are often rooted into our mundane existences. Being able to break free is what makes us human, and reminds us that we are alive.

Imagine dedicating more than sixty years of your life to family. Raising eight children over forty years, and tending to the house long after they are gone. Cooking and cleaning every day, and never complaining. Sending christmas presents and birthday presents to all of your grandkids every year, and never forgetting. Being genuinely interested in how everyone is doing; knowing that everyone is okay. How much is all of that worth? But this list doesn’t do you any real justice because there’s so much more.

I really hope you are going to be okay. But if you’re not, we know that you have had a good, long life. And you are a good person with an unassailably good heart, and nothing can change that, ever. You have proven that much.

Your life has certainly not been for nothing. I would never be able to describe how much more you are worth.