Field Notes: Late Winter Forest Sit Spot

Bottom of Winter. Somewhere in the Heartland. Mid-morning.

The leaves underfoot no longer crackle. Long months buried under frost, then snow, have weathered them. Softened them.

You know the feeling.
That’s why your boots carry you into the forest.

You shift the rucksack higher onto your shoulder and bury your hands in the pockets of your corduroy jacket. Within minutes the noise of the world behind you begins to mute. The deeper into the woods you move, the slower your steps. It’s already working.

You round a slight bend.
Pause. A glance behind you, then down the trail ahead.

No one.

You step decisively off the trail, not rushing. Deliberate.

A high step over the log, a bend around the hole of the uprooted stump, and a final few steps. Your hand lifts automatically to clear the spiderweb that always catches in your hair.

You unsling the rucksack, setting it to the side in the same motion that you pull the blanket free. You shake the blanket out, the weather-resistant backing sounding briefly harsh before it settles on the ground. A practiced nudge to tuck it up against your tree.

You ease down onto the soft flannel and lean back until you feel the bark solid through the fabric.
Legs stretched, ankles crossed.

A short rummage in the rucksack yields an old metal thermos. You untwist the lid, pour the tea nearly to the top.
You balance the cup near the edge of the blanket, stow the thermos, and pull out your notebook and pen.

Pick up the tea, settle back again. Eyes lift to the expanse of woods. A deep breath and your shoulders drop.

Silence.

No.
Not silence.

Quiet.

The notebook lies forgotten on your lap. There’s only the sound of the wind whispering through the branches above. The tree against your back is both strong and comforting.

You know the feeling.

Some rituals ask nothing more than repetition.

The wind shifts once more overhead.

Objects referenced in this field note:
Jacket · Boots · Thermos · Rucksack · Blanket