There are many people who have come before me (and probably some at the same time) who have found more lovely ways to express the feeling of a walk in the woods. The smell of the trees in the air. The sight of light playing peek-a-boo through the branches. The glow of green leaves in the canopy above. The stretch and sore of muscles in your legs. The calm in your soul as you walk and think and dream and breathe fresh air.
At the end of a long, gray, cold winter, I begin to crave the woods like a junkie. I get snappish and sulky and the only solution is a woods-fix. I begin to fantasize of a cabin in the woods, sipping coffee on the porch with no neighbors but the birds. I long for the quiet of an afternoon and the way the light falls across the floor. I remember how perfect it is to take a nap under a slowly twirling ceiling fan with the wind rustling through the branches as a lullaby. How much longer until every day is a dream day among the trees?
I grew up spending entire summers in the woods, coming home only for weekends before dashing off to another camp in another forest. I still remember the feeling of an early morning walk through the woods to breakfast. The absolute awe of a meadow, normally bright and cheerful, filled with fog and the softest light from the slowly rising sun. God is in the woods. I feel Him there when the light creates a glow and turns an ordinary tree into a cathedral of green. I feel Him in the woods the most and when I am there I have no doubts, just peace.
I am ready for the woods always.