All That Glitters Is Not Gold

Sunlight, foxes and the quiet tempo of the forest offer gentle reminders that not everything in life is in a hurry.

This is the best picture I got of the fox. It was pretty dark, so I used a filter to brighten it a bit.

I opened the blinds in my office one day this week and spotted a fox creeping past. I’ve seen plenty of deer, a few turkeys, feral cats, and the occasional raccoon – in fact, there’s a fat one that likes to dumpster dive nearby. But never a fox.

“I hope we never lose sight of the fact that we live in the forest,” I said to my wife a day or two later, while gazing out our bedroom sliding glass door.

A doe had just settled on the forest floor, which was only partially ruined by the police sirens in the background, reminding me that we aren’t Henry David Thoreau. Not that we’re trying to be. It’s just nice to have a little taste of the lifestyle. I like air conditioning too much to live in a hut in the woods anyway.

Last May, I got married, and we moved to an apartment on the edge of a forest. Most days, I work from a home office with a sliding glass door, watching nature carry on just outside.

Occasionally, a bird calls, a squirrel darts up a tree or sunlight streaks across the forest floor as the breeze shakes the branches.

When the sun shines at this time of year, it hits the leaves on a certain kind of tree, making them look like flakes of gold waving in the breeze. I’ve learned that these are probably beech trees (though they could also be oaks, hornbeams, Eastern hophornbeams, or witch hazels). They hold on to their leaves through winter via a mysterious process called marcescence.

There’s something comforting about the way those leaves refuse to rush their letting go process. They don’t cling out of fear, and they don’t fall out of obligation. They simply stay until the season is right, until the wind or the weight of new growth finally loosens their grip.

What I see outside my window is imperfect. Numerous blowdowns lie on or near the ground.

What appears to be a giant slingshot of a branch is stuck on something at the top of the rock retaining wall near our deck. And leaves are still an inch thick on the forest floor. Each fallen branch and leaf feels like a story waiting to be noticed.

Now that I think about it, maybe what I’m seeing is perfect because it’s all happening in its natural environment. Wind blows down trees, trees die, leaves accumulate. And when the wildlife wanders through, it feels like peeking through a crack into a world that was here long before me.

I don’t need to live in a hut to learn something from the forest. I just need to look up from my screen, notice the fox passing through and remember that not everything in the world is in a hurry.