The Woods Called, So We Went
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The rain finally wandered off sometime before dawn.
When I opened the cottage door, the whole world smelled wonderfully green.
The moss seemed softer than I remembered. Tiny mushrooms had appeared beside old logs overnight, and every leaf sparkled with little drops of water catching the morning light.
The woods looked as though they’d been quietly waiting for someone to visit.
I had planned to stay home today.
There were herbs to dry, books to put away, and a basket of laundry that had been patiently pretending not to notice me.
I even wrote a list.
Then I looked toward the forest.
Some invitations aren’t written on paper.
Some arrive as birdsong drifting through an open window.
Some arrive as sunlight on a mossy path.
So I packed my little satchel with a flask of tea, tucked my journal inside, and asked Smokey if he’d like to come along.
He blinked once.
I chose to believe that meant yes.
The woods had been busy while it rained.
Ferns stretched toward the light.
Wildflowers peeked shyly from the edges of the path.
Little mushrooms gathered beneath old trees like tiny woodland umbrellas.
Every few steps, something new asked to be noticed.
A feather resting on emerald moss.
A snail crossing a fallen log with remarkable determination.
A butterfly floating lazily through a shaft of golden light.
Meanwhile, Smokey seemed convinced that stopping every few moments to admire moss was a terribly inefficient way to travel anywhere.
He would wander ahead, realize I’d stopped again, sigh with his entire body, and come back to supervise my latest discovery.
It’s become our usual rhythm.
I notice.
He judges.
Neither of us would admit we enjoy it.
By afternoon, we reached our favorite little clearing.
The stream still hummed from the week’s rain, and the trees swayed gently overhead as though sharing quiet secrets with one another.
I poured myself a cup of warm tea and opened my journal.
For a little while, we simply existed there.
No rushing.
No lists.
No clocks.
Only birdsong, soft breezes, and the comforting feeling that the forest never minds how long it’s been since your last visit.
We wandered home just as the sunlight turned golden.
My boots were muddy.
My notebook was filled with tiny observations.
The chores were still waiting exactly where I’d left them.
Curiously, they didn’t seem upset.
Perhaps they understand that some days are meant for wandering.
And some days…
the woods call your name.
I’m very glad we went.
🍄 Today’s Pocket
Pocket Finds
- One smooth river stone
- Three tiny mushrooms (admired, not picked)
- A feather still sparkling with rain
- A heart-shaped leaf tucked inside my journal
Tea of the Day
Forest Mint & Honey
Smokey’s Official Opinion
“Stopping every twelve steps to admire moss remains an inefficient travel strategy.”
Pocket Note
Some invitations arrive as letters.
Others arrive as sunlight on a mossy path.
The best ones ask nothing of us except to come along.
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