What is it about trees collected one place (be they a grove, thicket, or proper forest) that whispers to us of faery: of enchantments made and broken, of battles to set good over evil, of wonders that defy our understanding?
When I find myself surrounded by trees, I am reminded of how small we humans are, that we are young and transitory, and that we truly are in a story–the epic of this earth. Though this truth demands wonder, familiarity often dulls our perception of it. However, in the intermittent light and shadows of a wood in the morning, I see the sun, like a star descending, burst through the canopy, gilding trunks and leaves as it passes, and in the shadows small beauties glisten and quiver. And I wonder.
“Why, to think of it, we’re in the same tale still! It’s going on. Don’t the great tales never end?”
“No, they never end as tales,” said Frodo, “But the people in them come and go when their part’s ended.”
(The Two Towers)