What is paradise? For many of the people who live or vacation in the town I call home, the answer is simple: the beach. Our town is lucky enough to claim one of the few sandy beaches in Maine, which many residents and almost all visitors are quick to take advantage of. In the summer, swarms of people flock to the beaches like seagulls, dotting the coastline with oversized umbrellas and brightly colored loungers. Despite the fact that there is no escaping the crowds and noise that accompany such an exodus, the beach is continually praised for its relaxing atmosphere and the pure enjoyment it provides.
I, unlike many members of my community, have never been fond of the beach. Maybe it’s because I grew up with forest all around me in one of the more rural parts of town, but I don’t feel the call of the ocean like my schoolmates did and I have no desire to bury my toes in the itchy sand or submerge my head below the sickeningly salty, Atlantic waves. There’s something about the woods, though, that is utterly magnetic, like a siren call that makes me want to walk far beyond the treeline and up steep cliffs with no regard to where I’m going or the potential danger I would put myself in. It tempts me to leave behind the traditional roof over my head and the walls that surround me for a more wild version, with tree canopies that shelter me from the elements and mountains that protect me on every side.
I could stand for hours among the trees, so still that anyone who happened upon the scene might mistake me for one of them. Though I’m certainly no expert in tree classification, I could pick out some of the more distinct varieties. Shagbark hickory, paper birch, sugar maple. In spring and summer, after heavy rainstorms, their leaves become the most vibrant greens, making the forest a verdant wonderland. Then, when autumn turns their leaves flaxen and ocherous, sunlight streaming through the trees brings them to life for a final time before the cold chill of winter removes any trace of the brilliant colors that graced the branches.
This is my paradise, a place many would call the middle of nowhere. I agree with their assessment to some extent. A random place in the woods could definitely be categorized as such, but it’s not because there is nothing to experience. Every time I look into the woods, no matter how often, I encounter new and nuanced things that indulge my senses and entreat me to return time and time again. So, when I say ‘the middle of nowhere,’ I’m referring to the nowhere you respond with when someone pries at your whereabouts. It’s the type of nowhere that is only known to you, that you keep sheltered from others so that you can keep this place all to yourself. Luckily for me, the forest has a way of keeping secrets.
