Written in 20 minutes by Márta O’Reilly during a writing exercise we had in our writing group. The title topic was “The Place Where Wild Pines Grow”.

I feel as if I’d been here before. I recognize the lay of the land, the shape of that hill on the horizon. I know as I walk this path what I will see when I turn that corner. This is not an ordinary déjà vu; this familiarity with every tree, every outcropping of rock down to every blade of grass.

Yet my plane landed here only yesterday. I am an old man. I have travelled far and long on the many trails of my world. But my history includes no visit to this northern land. I have been as far North as the Great Bay, even to some remote areas accessible only by canoe but never this far north. Flying over what was the edge of the tree line where the wild pines grow, just millimeters on the map from what is designated tundra, the trees here struggle for existence. The soil is sparse. In some spots nonexistent. Yet these twisted little stalwarts manage to grab hold of the rocks, squeezing roots into crevices where composting moss and lichens have created minute, miniscule peat pots.

The sky overhead is the same slate gray I had left behind in the big city yesterday. But, here the clouds have a different configuration. Small tufts of white spread widely, sparsely, neatly mirroring the layout of the wild Pines below.

I pitch my round tent on a small moss covered clearing surrounded by these hardy trees barely taller than myself. The only sound is the breeze whispering past their long needles. I have walked long and far to get here. This spot I recognize from, I know not where, know not when.

Sleep comes easily under more stars than I have ever encountered. Dreams, vivid and consoling reveal my deep connection to this timeless spot; another time, another life. This same spot of earth where another life once closed, I have returned now . . . to close this one.

©Márta O’Reilly 2016

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