The scent of pine.

When I was a teenager, I used to walk out into the woods on my grandparents lake property in northern Wisconsin.  Slipping between trees and onto ancient pine needle trails, I imagined myself with nimble moccasined feet, so at one with the earth they keep the silence in tact. Nostrils stinging with fragrant tannic whiffs released by every softly crunching step, I circled up a hill and then descended into a hollow of trees, tall thin birches peppered with oaks.  I sat down, leaned against a sturdy trunk, and faced the lake where the water gently lapped the shore, slowed by rounded stones and cattails. “Take off your shoes,” whispered my mind, “the ground you are on is holy.”  There was no burning bush, no audible voice, just a momentary thought so subtle I considered ignoring it.  Was I trying to force a religious experience on myself? Feeling a little silly and dramatic, I slipped off my shoes and placed them on the ground beside me.  In that instant, sunlight hit the rippled water and sent sparkling reflections through the trees, and I was enveloped in flickering patches of light falling like stars, or snowflakes, or angels all around me. I was astonished and have filed this image along with half-a-dozen others, when this world and the next fold in upon each other and I am in two places at once.