“I took a walk in the woods and came out taller than the trees.” – Henry David Thoreau
My love of the forest goes back to my childhood, when I would lose myself there without care or concern of getting lost or being found. Instinctually, I knew my way, and could sense wherever I was, no matter how deep I went. Of course, the woods near my childhood home were anything but vast. Bordered by streets and houses, it was easy to keep one’s place. Even when I explored unfamiliar forests near baseball fields and parks, I still managed to keep my bearings, and sometimes I spun around in circles, daring my senses to lose sight of where I was. Always, I found my way.
“And into the forest I go, to lose my mind and find my soul.” – John Muir
When one embarks on a woodland walk, there are dangers inherent to the expedition. Will your ax be wielded in protection or destruction? Perhaps you wish for a little of both. The blade is rusty in physical and metaphorical terms, and the pose is silly and histrionic, because all poses are. Poses have no place in the forest – not even on the edge.
“No one who loves the woods stays on the path.” – Millie Florence
A useful tool for certain acts of destruction, this little ax fits perfectly in hand, lending a false sense of safety for the one who carries it. In truth, such a trifling object is no match for the might of the woods, even when the day is warm and glorious and just like mid-summer.
“We must not always talk in the market-place of what happens to us in the forest.” – Nathaniel Hawthorne
A chopping block of secrets, where whispers are splintered like aged wood – not always as easy as it seems, not so simple as it looks – this is where tales are wound like that unchecked bittersweet vine at the end of summer. Such thin and wiry stems of green all too quickly thicken and harden into chokers of wood – a poisonous piece of deadly jewelry that will strangle its trusting host.
Hence the ax. For taming the invasive beast.
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