The tips of my toes brush the leaf-laden forest floor below the Lean-to. Layers of leaves at different stages of decomposition are disrupted by the swaying of my feet. How long has that leaf been lying in that spot below this ledge on this forest floor? I sit on the edge of the Lean-to, gripping well-worn solid wood, and feel like an intruder in a place fine without me.
A structure as sturdy as a Lean-to is intended to ‘reconnect’ me with a place I’ve never seen, yet still protect me from natural phenomena I know well. My whole life has been protected from the elements, from sunscreen to galoshes, storm windows to space heaters, sun glasses to rear-view mirrors. At last I sit in a place so defenseless, it is without a wall. There’s still a roof and a floor that is raised off of the ground, and of course the three other walls that comfort me with their convention. But the Lean-to is still a farce, a structure built as a novelty for those with an itch for clean air but no intention of staying.
The bumps and furrows, pit and mound topography, indicate a salvation from human incidence. The delicate ecosystem is merely a glimpse of pseudo-virgin forest, for any direction eventually intersects a road, no matter how much solitude one may feel. Sitting on the moist leafy floor, with smells of life and death and youth, decomposition and growth, I am overwhelmed by my philosophical convictions for critique of my intermittent and half-hearted intentions to reconnect with nature and the complete rush of bliss at a connection to place.
The Lean-to is a castle, perched on soft, rounded cliff of tremendous height from the earth’s core. The narrow stream bank below provides evidence of the brutal powers of archaic water from glaciers melted eons ago. Audible water replaces the familiar white noise we hear from air conditioning units. Here is a place of vague relatability, with enough mystery to provide infinite curiosities. Is this the difference between nature and not?
Nature is the unspoken artist, whose pallet is fruitful and brushstrokes are of ultimate consequence. A collage of colored leaves of different shapes, textures, and sizes spill across the hilly plane. Yellow freckled green leaves and red freckled yellow leaves and orange freckled brown leaves, the variety of combinations is endless but never obnoxious, not like the options for cell phones or Nike sneaks. It is the imperfect leaves that catch my eye; one pale, beige with a dark, deathly brown circle off center invokes Rothko-esque imagery. Our art is merely homage to nature. I still cannot place the difference.
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