Listening in Quiet Woods

In Illinois in midwinter the trees are bare and brown. The sky is generally gray, and on most days there isn’t enough sun to satisfy my cats. Without leaves in the way, I can see a mile over to the next hill where there are more brown trees. Brown doesn’t interest me much. I prefer green.

The woods are quiet as I walk through the woods, go around the bend where the creek has carved a path down into the land, and find a place to sit. Everything seems to be dead or frozen and waiting patiently for the warmth of spring. Yet when I look closer I see the forest’s patchwork of life. There are a dozen shades of brown in the trees and bushes, and the colors of lichen on the boulders slide from sage to yellow to orange. A slight breeze comes up along the creek bed and rustles the dry leaves. Squirrels emerge to dig for acorns. White-breasted nuthatches twitter in the trees, and a red-tailed hawk circles overhead checking the ground for food. From over the rise, a crow calls. A response comes from the other direction, and a laid-back conversation begins as each crow thinks before responding. Sometimes when I have walked through here, there has been an owl.

It’s helpful to have a physical place to go and listen for the sacred. Although I visit small, stone chapels and soaring cathedrals when I can, most often it’s in the woods where I feel a special presence. I don’t come here enough to sit and listen, but when I do, I realize how much of the living world I’ve missed.