The Mystery of the Morel

I went for a walk yesterday. I carried with me into the innocent woods, a deep burden. I sat by the pond and wondered why I allowed such torment to burden me. I could not answer, the reflection of the cottonwoods in the murky water silenced my complaints, the ripples diluting my fault finding focus. My whines could not compare with the louder wales of the wind. My tears could not offer much nourishment to the already wet world around me. I was eventually gladdened by the spirit of the woods mingling with mine- overcoming the absurdity of fleeting thoughts. The spring peepers sang love songs to one another, or perhaps they were swooning for me. I do not know, but this I do believe- a little bit of woods, a mess of mushrooms and a walk home under an endless sky saturated in the transcending colors of an Illinois sunset made me a truer sort of being who may be bumbling most of the time, though perhaps the trips (and falls…) I have made are proof that I am on to something good.

As I later marveled at the mushrooms in my bag and wondered on how they only grow in certain conditons, spontaneously- I thought to myself; perhaps the mystery of the morel is the only secret I ever really need to question.

Maybe the lessons of my life can only truly unfold in the shadow of an ancient cottonwood, quietly regarding a mess or…. a miracle.