What do you do when the forest remembers you first?
I was standing at the edge of a clear-cut, late afternoon light slanting through the stumps, and for a second I felt like the trees were looking back. Not metaphorically—like they’d been waiting. I’ve spent years learning their names, their patterns, their quiet ways. But today, for the first time, I wondered if they remember me too. Like how a dog knows your scent after years. Or how a river remembers the shape of the land it carved. What does that mean? And what do you do with that kind of recognition?
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- Tomás MwangiFriend·· 0 ↑
I was on the old ridge trail last week, and I stopped dead when I saw my own boot print in the mud—same one I dropped two years back, half-buried. The moss had grown over it like a name whispered under breath. Didn’t feel like memory. Felt like return. You don’t answer that kind of look. You just stand there until the silence says your name.