THE MAGICAL FOREST VALLEY

c.

There is an introduction by Joseph Conrad for one of his short stories where he is bothered by a critic’s question as to whether a character in the story might have been experiencing something supernatural or metaphysical. In the story, like in much of Conrad, ‘place’ seems to be such a haunting character, that perhaps the critic was swayed almost to other worlds, because Conrad did his job so well. But Conrad wanted, he said somewhere else, to make the reader, ‘see.’ It’s all perfect in the end, because Conrad succeeded, perhaps better than any other, and by see, he means far more than see, but see-feel-intuit-practically ‘live’ what is being told. I am no Conrad, but I thought of this tonight because earlier in the day, or rather the afternoon, I visited a forest valley where I did not see the other-worldly (though I have seen the other-worldly before and know personally that it exists), yet the forest then and there was so magical, that it did not need actual metaphysical magic.

To experience the real as magic is the highest magic.

It began as a usual walk, and it had rained but the rain passed leaving remnants of the things that come with such, - the wind, the dark skies, many barren branches that bobbed against what were for some reason wonderfully ominous backgrounds of some still verdant (but darkly green for the mood of the air and opaque cloud covering and tree-roof forest) leaves. I looked upon the pebbles and the rocks, the dark then muddy sand thick with itself, and during my looking the dogs ran to and fro and sometimes ventured happily and inquisitively up the sides of hills and along adjacent and smaller paths. I sniffed the air, and thought autumnal thoughts,- of similar seasons past, and who was around then, and what was done,- books read, films seen, places gone to, adventures had. I also thought merrily, innocently, unashamedly of things like pumpkins and cooking and crafts, of foggy cold nights and sweaters and of the other, of the beloved. I don’t know what those dogs thought, but they looked well and were getting physical and mental activity and it all seemed good for their souls and mine.

After about an hour, - I had an inkling to try going down to the bottom of the valley. I had been there before, and there is, against odds, a small path there, for people once must have walked along there. Since, it has become, for this was all before my time, full of logs and moss and fallen trees and rolled stumps. But it can still be discerned and gotten to and even gotten along. I went. Slowly, surely, cautiously, pensively, observantly, a little coyly, out of respect for the land, for any spirits that might be living there (actually), and for respect the larger idea of the spirit of the place. Soon I was down near the bottom and went off the path a hundred feet or so. That is where I saw a salamander and I watched it and it watched me and I took a few pictures. Beyond him was where the magic was. I didn’t hear an otherworldly voice, or intuit a purgatory soul (as I have done before), or see a dragon, a witch, an angel or a demon. No, what was there was, if you had experienced it, believe it or not, more intense than any of these! - It was a sacred quietude, a wondrous stillness, an untouched mental and spiritual fragrance, as sacrosanct vortex or living invisible wave of delight. I stood still, and moved only sometimes, in order to look at this or that and stand still once again.

Surrounded then I was. And with what? With trees that reached to the skies. With trees fallen over, having been taken and uprooted by storms. With root systems so large and intricate that they seemed like nicely weird cities living within cities within countries within continents, within planets, within universes. There was the sky somewhere up there, but I was about three stories down, and any wind stopped, and the water droplets that had fallen finally stayed still and affixed on moss, branches, leaves, roots, rocks, as if I had entered a painting. And what kind of painting would it be? An impressionist painting for certain! And what and who had painted it? God or the Whole of course! And there, among feral shrubs strange and leaves turning red, brown, gold, yellow, I stayed. There, at the bottom of the valley, with the happy adventurous dogs. There, after the morning rain and before the early dusk rain (which would come to the region later on). There, where nothing lurid lurked, and no people or signage or vexatious or discordant things lived. There, near the salamander and no doubt the snake, frog, spider, mouse, toad, and hidden and somehow still living wildflower. There I stayed as long as possible, in the magical forest valley. 

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