Page 49 of In a Word, Yes

“Girl. I got ya.” Nytasha produces a business card. “Now, my next forest bathing session is coming up a week from Saturday, and—”

I hold up a palm. “Nice. It’s just that—”

“Oh, this isn’t like normal forest bathing. None of that aimless, fir-scented wandering. I’m no granola. My sessions are intensely focused. Transformational. There’s a waitlist, of course, but I’m willing to make an exception for you, Luce.”

Ack. I hate to be so particular, but I’m very selective about who gets to call me Luce, and Nytasha hasn’t yet made the list.

“By the end of session one, we’ll have you burning away all of this”—Nytasha splays the fingers on her right hand and paints a wide circle in the air over me—“dead outer bark.”

Louie hops down, pausing to slice a disapproving look at Nytasha before strolling away.

I brush fur off my chinos. “Yes, well, I—” I can’t wait to inform Nytasha in no uncertain terms that Saturdays are an absolute no-go. That is, if she’ll ever give me the chance.

“But the real fun begins in session two! I call it ‘Confronting Your Inner Sapwood.’ Now here’s my number. Text me, and I’ll give you all the particulars. The first session is fully refundable if it doesn’tcompletelyunblock you. But it will, I’m quite—”

Nytasha’s attention has ping-ponged elsewhere, over my shoulder. “See you then,” she says quite abruptly, rising to leave without a backward glance. Turning, I apprehend that her next target is Wyatt, poor guy. Although, who am I to say what type of woman he might find interesting. Maybe Nytasha is the exact species of towering ponderosa he’s been waiting for all his life.

I button my cardigan. Maybe he’s into all that clothing-optional, wilderness woo-woo. None of which is in the least bit my concern.

In fact, at the moment I’ve got a standing appointment with an adorably freckled amateur ecologist and then some flannel sheets.

Sixteen

phototropism(n.): the phenomenon by which a plant bends toward a source of light

Sunday morning, wisps of woodsmoke rise from chimneys and merge into a platinum river snaking across the base of the mountains. Distant copses of autumn foliage appear like orange fires set ablaze across the horizon.

Even here inside the church sanctuary, a hint of sweet woodsmoke hangs in the air. Alone in my highly favored seat—back row, right corner, in case something comes up with Chase in childcare and I need to make a swift exit—I’m listening or at leastattemptingto attune my mind to Pastor David’s sermon. Trouble is, my awareness of a certain broad-shouldered sheriff’s lieutenant half a dozen seats ahead is unavoidable, given the fact that his substantial form directly fills my vision.

It also warrants mentioning that sitting small and sparrowlike in the seat right next to Wyatt is not-so-sunny Sunny. Occasionally he leans down to whisper something to her, and even with her narrow shoulders beefed up by a wool coat, the disparity ofthe two members of my writing group, in both size and temperament, presents quite the charming juxtaposition. All of which I find endlessly heartwarming.

How did they end up here together? I’ve never before seen either of them in church—not that I’ve achieved gold-star attendance myself. I haven’t.

Anyway, I’ve always been a people-watcher. It’s second nature. Earlier, during the opening music, I caught sight of my neighbor Nina, her eyes closed, hands lifted, singing about the goodness of God, right alongside the sweet couple who founded the new youth ranch that’s benefiting her two kids so dramatically. The same program Chase finally agreed to try out next weekend—can I get an amen?

Seeing friends—people for whom God has redeemed great pain—sing out from heart and flesh “Your Spirit’s water to my soul” makes the hair stand up on my arms and sends my own worship soaring.

The thing is, most of us are great at rejoicing about the grace and love and power available to us in the here and now and the hope we know we can bank on for tomorrow. But we don’t talk enough about the hardness of life, what it’s really like out there when pain enters and the worship music fades. Already we’re prone to shame, but add to that the sense that everyone else appears to be thriving while we’re flailing, and we think there’s something wrong with us.

Too long, I believed there was something wrong with me. Something I needed to keep hidden. All to say, we could do better. I could do better. And writing feels like a way—my way—to serve the need.

See, Lucy. Contrary to the story you’ve told yourself for so long, you do have opinions.

When Pastor David points out the mirrored, poetic structure in Psalm1, I’m here for it, leaning in. How have I never noticed this? And smack in the middle of the psalm is a familiar bit thatfor some reason sparks a piercing sensation in my chest. When I jot down the verse, I restate it in my own words and in first person.

When I, Lucy, find my highest joy in meditating day and night on God’s instruction, I’m like a tree planted by streams of water, always blooming, constantly yielding fresh fruit, never dropping a leaf.

Give me a good tree analogy any day. This one resonates in my spirit in a way Nytasha’s doesn’t even begin to. I love the symbolism in nature. Even Chase would’ve sat still for this sermon!

Planted by streams ... yielding fruit.I hoped God would one day allow my writing to be this kind of fruit, something I could offer to others. If so, this verse might hold the key.

I was meant to hear this today.

And yet the side struggle continues. I can’t help tracking Wyatt’s body language, the way he tilts his head ever so slightly in response to some nuance in the teaching, the same things that make me tilt my own. He, too, appears to be taking notes. This has the unintended consequence of turning my attempts to meditate on God’s wisdom into a pile of melted goo.

Ironic.

Which brings me back to the point of the sermon: pruning meaningless distractions, focusing on what’s essential, sinking my roots deeper and deeper into true nourishment.