Into the Woods
The Quest for a sanctuary, peace of mind, and a stick.
By Natnicha Chuwiruch
People search for many things in life. Some search for money. Some search for power. Some search for acceptance. I was searching for a stick. Not just any stick, but a nice, sturdy branch. Now this branch is not a metaphor for anything. Life did not throw me down a rabbit hole, leaving me to flail and trying to grab onto figurative branches that hit me on the way down. I wandered into the woods for a reason.
That reason can be summed up in two words: Elle Decor.
Wood nymphs, wandering spirits, or the impulse of a tree-hugging naturalist did not sway me. It was the colorful, glossy, pages of an interior design magazine I picked up in Starbucks while waiting for my full-fat diabetes inducing cup of coffee flavored sugar water.
Under the cheap chic section, a woman came up with the idea of using a tree branch as a curtain rod. So there I was, in the woods, not looking for peace or quiet for that matter. I was in search of an apartment accessory. Of all the places in Boston that I would find a little patch of nature, I knew the Chestnut Hill Reservoir would have plenty of trees and less witnesses, in the case that my determination pushes me into chewing a branch off with my own teeth.
I am a nervous person, borderline paranoid, so I did not head into the forest alone, like all the naive children in fairytale books. My fondness of bright flamboyant clothes did not offer much camouflage amongst the brown, green, and black. I would have been a bright bulls-eye, much like Little Red Riding Hood, except I doubt I would be as fortunate as to have a large burly woodsman come to my rescue.
I was worried about something bad happening in the woods. I could trip into a ravine and get a limb stuck under a large rock and have to spend days there before chewing my arm off to free myself. Or I could have been kidnapped by a wood-dwelling terrorist group. Both these scenarios seemed to be a definite reality for me.
My solution to my very rational fears was simple. I brought a friend.
Of all the people I know and could have chosen to accompany me, I chose a girl. Her name is Claire. Combined, the two of us have just about enough upper body strength to tip a bottle off a table. On the day I choose to walk through the soft leaves-covered dirt, neither of us opted for sensible shoes. Our fondness of sharp stilleto heels could be the end of us if we get them stuck in the dirt and tumble down a hill and break our necks. Yet, they were also our only self-defense weapons.
Claire and I fumbled through the dirt path that led deeper into the woods, pushing tree branches and spider webs away from our faces. She would point at broken off branches on the ground and I would say “no”, “maybe”, or “Oh God no! I think that has a parasitic insect living in it.”
Finally, under a large tree that overlooked the reservoir, there it was. A large curved branch was sitting on the ground waiting for my arrival. I checked it to make sure bugs had not claimed it before me. I had a curtain back at home waiting for its arrival. After deeming it perfect, it was then that I realized the little utopia that we had wobbled in our mud covered heels into.
The area was quiet, apart from the sound of crunching sand under running shoes from the dirt track populated by joggers below. The trees gave shade and blocked the hill that we were on so that we could observe others without being spotted ourselves.
So with my large newfound branch in one hand and a cigarette in the other, we sat down under the tree and breathed in the fresh tobacco-contaminated air and rejoiced at the silence and beauty of the mini-paradise we found.
Perhaps after I get over my fear of the woods dwelling terrorist group, I’ll revisit my spot under the tree.
Until then, the branch that now hangs over the doorway in my apartment will be enough to remind me of my trek into nature.
