Epistle 2

Friend,

I realized it today, and I think you, more than anyone, will understand. From the ship, rather than being surrounded by water like I am on land, I am surrounded by land like it is water-- finally perceived as a whole, moving in swells, developing events of pine and mist. It was particular pines and mist that startled me with the realization which is the impetus for this letter.

I have been too long without the acceptance of the forest. Acceptance: it strikes you, perhaps, as a peculiar word to use. Let me explain. The forest is a whole thing, tall, taller than a man, and deep, deeper than a mind. It is a smell and a sight, a sound, a dressing for mangled skin, the flavor of irons in the earth. It being infinitely vast in its Zeno's paradox of scale, the only relationship a man can have with it is to be accepted into it, like sugar into tea. Such a relationship does not make floral sugar but sweet tea.

Something about being absorbed into the forest is necessary, restorative, vital. My room in the village afforded me easy access to the shelter of trees and the nutritive aroma of the soil. It is not so where I live now. I am sick for the forest. I am desperate to be small and in awe. I am brittle without the opportunity to banish my ego and be the air in the lungs of the trees, inhaled and absorbed by them, put to good use, and made indistinguishable from the mist.

The city, too, is beautiful, but it falls apart when you touch it. When I touch the earth, I am the thing falling apart. And falling apart is such a comfort.

Your Friend,