A walk in the woods with death

Spending time at the tiny nature preserve down the street from me has been my important ritual for decades now. It is the place I've taken first dates and new friends. It's also my place to clear my mind. I decided to get divorced on a walk in these woods. There's something about that quiet space that helps me bring things into perspective. Maybe it's that it doesn't need me at all. Whether I pay my bills on time or do my dishes or gain 1o pounds, the leaf litter will continue its imperceptible churning. The tree rings will not reflect the times when my life feels like it's falling apart. I remember that I, too, will die.

The summer my father died was warm and beautiful. The fall my divorce was finalized was colorful and crisp. I remember the walks, distinct yet identical. The rustling of the grass stalks in the breeze, the startling warning honks of nesting geese.

All Saint's Day has come and gone, but this season in the woods is when we feel our ghosts most distinctly. Flower seedheads are crispy and brown. The turtles I have watched in their patches of sunlight all summer are burrowed deep in the drying muck. My ghosts walk with me, decked in the adornment of the season; dry bronze oak leaves, spiky teasel stems. Nostalgia has a distinct smell - frost on the air but not yet arrived.

Walking through death reminds me of my crunchy bouquet of failures. But something about these walks lets me see them with graceful grief. I can let them go like a handful of milkweed fluff and they'll be gone on the wind.