When is a Stump not a Stump?

Have you heard of forest bathing? It’s a new-to-me type of therapy in the world of wellness where you cleanse your mind and spirit—among the trees. I’m for that. I’ve always been drawn to the woods and, growing up, we played in them almost daily. It was the seventies, though, and we didn’t know we were ahead of our time--we were just having fun. 

On hot, summer days we’d ride our bikes up and into the tall pines; the air was 20 degrees cooler under the canopy. There was no doorway, but it felt as if we’d entered a different world. We raced along the dirt trails, played hide-and-go-seek, and scared ourselves. We checked for evidence of a recent party where our older brothers and sisters sometimes gathered around a campfire to sneak a smoke and pass a bottle of Boone’s Farm. 

Years ago, before the land was clear-cut for a housing development, I took one last walk. The paths were faint and overgrown; the trees had thinned out. What seemed so vast and mysterious to me as a child ended up covering only a few acres. I wish I hadn’t taken that walk.

We recently discovered a great little trail near us. It’s part of the growing Carolina Thread Trail network of trails. It’s not a challenging hike, but it’s long enough to get your heart pumping. And it has my favorite attribute: it’s in the woods. The creek that meanders through it adds bonus points.

No one else was on the trail, but we were not alone. Scattered along the last half were a few thoughtful surprises: wood spirits carved into tree stumps. Some talented person(s) had carved delightful faces into otherwise useless stumps, for hikers to enjoy. We did!

Some of the faces were fully formed; others only had a nose etched out as if the artist had run out of daylight--or gasoline. 

The trail is new-ish, so it isn’t marked thoroughly yet. There is also a desperate need for a bridge to cross a wide area of the creek. (Let the record show, though, that I was willing to wade across the twenty-foot span of cool, flowing water; my trekking partner was not.)

The whole trail is a work in progress. Most are, actually. Even a finished trail requires regular maintenance, and sometimes rerouting, to address erosion or changes to hiking patterns. 

We can’t wait to go back and see what those faces ended up being. Maybe we’ll discover they were actually finished when we saw them the first time. 

At what point does an artist call their work “done,” “complete,” or even “a success”? It’s hard to know sometimes—whether you’re decorating a cake or writing an article or building a tree fort—when the thing is complete. 

If this were for work, of course, I'd preach about meeting the project specifications and addressing audience needs. Let's just think about personal projects for a moment since many of us have had time for those this past year. 

Think about taking a pile of nothing and turning it into something. Should you add more? Take away? Sometimes you sneeze, splatter the red paint, and have to paint the whole thing red now. 

How do you know when to stop? Is it when you’re tired of tinkering with it or when the deadline hits? Or do you feel it in your bones?

What about ourselves? Do you seek to learn more or to be more or to do more? Or are you happy with the status quo? Contentment is a good thing; striving can be, too, if it fills us up without strangling us. Some days I find myself striving to be content; it doesn’t work that way.

The chocolate cake can’t tell you it’s too chocolatey (as if that were a thing). Mama can say it is; Daddy can say it isn’t. Ultimately, you have to decide when the final product is just right. 

When is a stump not a stump? When you say so. 

Thanks for reading. Meet you in the woods.