I stand in front of the bookshelf next to my bed, an upgrade from the old bedside table which always overflowed with books. My fingers trace the spines of a dozen books on my TBR shelf waiting patiently for their turn: the latest Matt Haig novel, The Life Impossible; a retelling of The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn from the enslaved Jim’s perspective, James by Percival Everett; a handful of books about motherhood and parenting; and more.
My pointer finger pauses on a beautiful nonfiction book about trees, and I know this is the one. This book, The Language of Trees: A Rewilding of Literature and Landscape by Katie Holten, has been waiting two years for its turn. This stunning hardcover with a partial dust jacket was a gift from my husband two Christmases ago, and while I’ve been eager to read it, the timing hasn’t felt right until now.
Perhaps the handful of warm sunny days we’ve recently enjoyed triggered my excitement for spring, the season my family aims to plant at least one tree every year. Or maybe I’m yearning for a deeper connection with the earth since winter is the season I spend the least amount of time outside.
No matter the reason, something about this book calls to me, and when I pluck it from the shelf and turn its crisp pages, my eyes settle on the introductory words of Ross Gay: “Being in a library…can sometimes feel like being in a forest: a wild variety of plants from the canopy to the ground; all manner of life, some of it visible, most of it not; patches of dense shade, swaths of deckled light, clearings where a huge tree just fell and you can almost hear the turning beneath, toward the light.”
I like this simile because it feels like a necessary comparison. As a self-identified forest lover, I live for the vast expanse of the forest, the excitement I feel as I step onto an unexplored hiking trail, the way my body relaxes when I’m surrounded by nature, the awe I feel when I gaze up into a dense canopy of tree cover. I love the way the ferns cluster along the forest floor and the way white birch bark pops against the evergreen needles of an old-growth pine. So much beauty and diversity and opportunity to discover. So much potential for exhilaration, relaxation, and joy. Indeed, being in a forest can sometimes feel like being in a library.
It’s no surprise that book lovers might feel a particularly strong connection to trees, considering their very life gifts us our pages.
Eventually, every trail (and every book) ends. Sometimes a book remains with us briefly, passing in and out of our minds, and other times, a book becomes the framework for living our best lives. We revisit these treasured books, traverse their pages over and over, and memorize their terrain as well-beaten paths.
The pile of books on your shelf or bedside table are not meant to fill you with a sense of guilt, as if a librarian is wagging their finger at you asking why you haven’t read them all yet. Instead, every pile or shelf of books is a trailhead—an opportunity to be present, to wade slowly through the forest and choose the book that is speaking to you. And every book selection is an opportunity to follow that invitation down yet another undiscovered path.
Happy trails, and happy reading!