Hartwick Pines is quiet.
You feel the air here.
As I walked along the little path, loose pebbles ground beneath my feet making soft marble sounds against the sole of a shoe and some old, poured gravel. You hear your steps… and then quieter. You hear the tiny steps of a squirrel somewhere down the way, then quieter. Until you’re certain you can hear every step of the daddy long-legs as it flitters down an aging stump.
Hartwick Pines is quiet.
Almost cut off from outside sensation there is no certainty of daytime or sunshine. It comes and goes and the little forest is lit up, but not sunny. Overcast, but not sad. Trees have fallen, but are not ruined. Total stillness, but there is growth. The pines are not a place you see. They are a place you absorb. The light dew touches your flesh and soaks into you. And although you cannot stray from the path, cannot hug the trees, or step on the ancient soil, you meld into the forest.
You are part of it now. That little path, spread clear and wide open, is for you. For you to occupy. For you to fill up. And no one can touch you, or damage you, or step on you. No one can tell you to move, because this spot was meant for you. Nothing can blow you down that wasn’t meant to blow you down. And nothing can hurt you. The Pines protect you. And you become ancient, too. Because you are blanketed in leaves, and green, and moss. Because you are doused with soft sunlight. Because the sound of your breath is the sound of the wind against wet branches. Because the path was put there for you. The space put there for you. Because you were meant to fill it. And because now, you are part of the Pines.
Visit: Hartwick Pines State Park
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