Thousands of years of foliage occupy the forest in which I walk. The trees are tall and thick, plentiful with leaves and even hold long abandoned birds nests. They are dignitaries, serving as high counsel for the inner workings of the earth: they produce, decorate, and photosynthesize. Their hollows serve as windows for chipmunks, and for those who chose to explore the possibilities of what lies beneath the hardened face of an old oak, the forest becomes the land where imagination runs wild. Stories of fairies and folklore, mystical things, wizards and warlocks become no less than a possibility. The forest is magical, the trees sway to chirps that resemble flutes and trumpets, and are a reminder that the world existed before us. A necessary, but humbling thought. Ideas of existentialism circle in my head, the meaning of life, contemplating my own insignificance. When I look at the trees, standing in all of their revered glory, I see nothing but life - the very essence of what it is to exist. Even when an old tree falls they cascade back into the soil- and will once again grow. Nature is just inexplicably a gentle reminder of what it means to be alive, and a catalyst for how to imagine.