This morning I found a little leaf on the path. It was not a big leaf. It was the kind you almost miss if your feet are going too fast. There was a tiny drop of light sitting on it, just sitting there, and when I leaned closer, the light moved a little, like it was leaning back at me. I think the forest likes it when we lean closer. I don't know why. It just does.
I stayed there for a while. Not because anything was happening. Just because I wanted to.
That is how most of my days start. Not with something big. With something small that I almost walked past.
If you came into my forest, I wouldn't tell you to hurry. I would probably just say, come and look at this. And then we would look at it together, and maybe nothing else would happen for a little while, and that would be okay.
We go slowly here. Not because we're tired. Because slowly is how you notice things. The moss is soft if you actually stop and touch it instead of just walking over it. The path has little stones that feel warm in some places and cool in others, and I don't know why that is either, but I like knowing it.
Pip came running while I was still looking at the leaf. Pip always comes running when something is shiny. He doesn't walk up slowly like me — he just arrives, all at once, out of breath from being excited about something that hasn't even happened yet. He looked at the leaf and made a small sound, like "oo?" — like the leaf had asked him a question and he was asking it right back.
I didn't know the answer either. So we both just sat there and looked at it. That's something I like about my forest. You don't always have to know the answer quickly. You can sit next to a question for a while and let it be a question.
Pip doesn't use big words. He doesn't really use words at all. But I always know what he's feeling, because his tail tells me first. When he's curious, it curls up like a little question mark. When he's happy, it goes soft and loose, like it forgot to be careful. Sometimes he runs off — to a mushroom, then to a sparkle in the grass, then to a sound I can't even hear — but he always comes back when the forest goes quiet. I think he remembers, somewhere in his small furry head, that quiet things can be just as interesting as loud ones. Maybe more interesting, actually, because you have to pay attention to notice them at all.
Pip never makes me feel like I have to keep up with him. He just lets me watch him be Pip, and that's enough.
After a while, we walked further in, toward the big tree. That's Knot.
Knot is very big. Bigger than me, bigger than Pip, bigger than the whole bend in the path where the ferns grow tall enough to hide things. But he doesn't make big sounds. His leaves move slowly, almost like they're thinking about it first, and sometimes, when the sky turns that deep blue color it turns before night, his branches make a kind of roof over us, and underneath it feels different. Not squeezed. Just held.
Knot doesn't tell me what to do. He's never once told me to hurry, or to be careful, or to come back from somewhere. He just stays. And I've noticed that when I'm not sure about something — like a new sound, or a shadow that looks a little strange before I understand what it is — I look over at Knot, and if his leaves are still moving slowly, the same slow way they always move, then I know everything is fine. He doesn't have to say anything. His slowness is the answer.
Some friends are good at running with you. Pip is like that. And some friends are good at just staying, the same way, no matter what. Knot is like that. I think you need both kinds.
I don't know exactly what makes a day in my forest good, but I think it's something like this: a leaf with light on it, Pip arriving too fast and then remembering to slow down, Knot's leaves barely moving, and nothing that has to happen next.
That's the other thing I want to tell you, actually, because I think it matters. My stories know when to stop.
Some stories keep opening little doors — and then more doors, and then more doors after that — and your feet don't really know where to put themselves anymore, because there's always one more thing coming. My forest isn't like that. When something is finished here, we let it be finished. We find a resting place. Sometimes it's under Knot's leaves. Sometimes it's beside a flower that's already half asleep. Sometimes it's just the moment when Pip finally stops making his little "oo?" sound and puts both paws down on the moss and goes still.
When we find that place, we don't pull the story away to somewhere else. We let it sit down. We let it rest there for a bit, the way you rest after walking a long way, before anyone thinks about what comes next.
I like that about my forest more than almost anything.
So if you want to come in, that's what it's like. Little lights on leaves. Pip arriving too fast and slowing down anyway. Knot standing there, saying everything by saying almost nothing. Stories that know exactly when to stop, and let themselves stop there.
We're not in a hurry. We never really have been.
You can come in whenever you're ready. We'll go slowly. I think you'll like it here.
—Lumi