The Wood Beyond the World

The world of late has gone astray. Up is down, left is right, good is now railed as evil, and evil hailed as good - and quite frankly, I have become rather exhausted trying to make sense of it all. What was once a wide open bay upon which the soul could sail freely has since become an expanse settled with fog - paddle still in hand, but a crippling fear keeping one from veering off too far this way or that. Make no mistake, “I am speaking in human terms, because of [my] natural limitations”, as the Apostle Paul says in Romans 6:19. Namely, I do not say these things strictly as a Christian, per se, as though my hope were by any means faltering. Rather, I say it as a man; as a man who has bound his every hope to the words of Christ, yet as a man that is still bound by the weakness of the flesh; a man that is rubbing shoulders with a world that is fading and dying. The world has fallen, my friends, and though Christ is our only hope, there is a sense in which, because of the light we have from Him and His word, we as Christians see the world with far greater clarity because of this hope, and what we see terrifies us.

This is not to say that all was fine and tidy six months ago, or a year ago, or an age ago. Rather, it would seem that the mess we have all become accustomed of late has since grown to be a burden of greater proportions. A beast that was once hidden is now coming out from under the bed and beneath the staircase to sit with us at the dinner table. Despite all the upsets and bereavements since 2020, the past few years have nonetheless proved to be a time of sobriety for many of us; a season in which the tether of this world has been steadily loosened. Hardships often prove to be fertile soil in which to make sense of things - after all, sometimes all that is needed to cut through the fog is a little perspective.

Now, when the world seems especially foggy, there tends to be one of two wells that I find myself retreating to for rest and refreshment. These are small things to be sure, but they have proved to be utterly reliable and have since grown to be quite dear to my heart. Among these wells of refreshment is of course writing, which has been a great outlet for imaginative and mental constipation in times past. Although, there are times when I have very little energy to pour out my mind, especially when I am tired and strained to begin with. Therefore, the two roads that I will most often tread upon when I sense the need of a break from this weary world are in actuality very simple and small things: either to sit by a small fire with a coffee in hand or to go on a walk in the countryside. The latter of these, taking a walk in the wood of this world, being the greater of the two.

I have always delighted in strolling through the rolling hills and shadow-laden woodlands of this world; though I never pondered deeply why this was. I, of course, like any sensible creature, shared an appetite for nature and creation, and so for a time I was content to enjoy beauty for beauty's sake. It has only been over the last several years in which I've taken thought to the why of the matter and I feel as though I have come to the bottom of it at last. 

In all of those old tales and books that crowded my childhood - The Lord of the Rings and Narnia being chief among them - I always caught a sense of some warmth within them that our current world did not have. Only, as a young boy, I did not recognize this warmth for what it truly was way back then. It seems as though the worlds tucked away among the pages of old books captured a sense of what was far more real, eternal, and solid than the things of our world would ever dare suggest - the world of fallen man, that is. This world of ours is filled with many broken people and sharp edges; a cloak of gray and shadow tossed upon it, seemingly veiling some deeper truth just beyond our reach. By contrast, the worlds of Narnia and Middle-Earth did not seem this way. Surely there were great wars and vast figures of evil looming over the lands, but is our world any different? I would venture to say it is not; our world is in many ways far worse off than these lands of fiction. Though, these worlds did not have Christ, only just the shadow of Him.

The wars raging over Narnia and Middle-Earth were brutal and sweeping, but they were fought for the good and freedom of those who lived in those lands. Our wars, on the other hand, have since abandoned such noble causes. In these old tales the evil was always far away, far off to the East, where the thought of it was ever near but the enemy himself was distant enough that he did not greatly disturb one’s sleep or morning coffee. In our world, the enemy is we-know-not-who, shapeless, and oftentimes the foe may be far closer than we dare to imagine. Although unrealistic, perhaps, the old tales that we were all weaned on as children illustrated to our young minds a world that was very much founded on right and wrong, black and white; with good on the one side and evil very clearly on the other. Not only that, but it seemed that the folks who we would call good in these stories were in fact, however imperfect, men and women who genuinely strove for the betterment of the world they inhabited. They were flawed beings who, like you and I, just tried to do what was right in a world that was attempting to consume them.

And this thing I caught a glimpse of within these tales, the thing I called warmth, well, I do hope you know what I mean. For when all the wars were fought and the dust settled, the heart of the tale often rested upon two friends sitting around the warmth of a charcoal fire in deep conversation over a meal, or perhaps sharing a puff from a pipe, or a bout of ale. Whether their talk was concerned with the gathering darkness to the East or their upcoming journey to the Haven of the Elves, it mattered not - that such a moment could be enjoyed to begin with was often the point in itself. The characters that found themselves at the center of these tales cared not for gold or fame, for friendship was wealth enough for their world-weary hearts. Indeed, “the sun looks down on nothing half so good as a household laughing together over a meal, or two friends talking over a pint of beer.” Happy are those who know the truth of this remark.

Within the friendship found in these tales - when gathered around the dinner table or in deep talk - I always caught the aroma of something ever so near, and yet too far off to make out clearly. A sense of Deja-vu almost, even nostalgia - an emotional memory, as it were. This very same feeling, this emotional memory of the soul, often accompanies me when I take an hour or two from the day and simply walk among the aching pines and babbling creeks of this world. Though not always, there are nonetheless many times, whether in deep talk or ‘deep walk’, when the soul seems bent upwards; when a tune from that other world falls lightly on your ears, as though you are privy to something that you should not be hearing - not yet, at least.

After catching the aroma of such things beyond words themselves, who are we to call this fickle place of shifting shadows and gathering nightfall home? It is in these little moments, as heavy and dense as a thunderclap and yet as light as the footfall of a sparrow, in which we catch a glimpse of the wood beyond the world. A place that at times cannot possibly seem more far off, and yet in other moments, a place that is perhaps only inches away from our own. A place that is not on the other side of the universe or in another universe altogether, but a very real place that runs alongside our very own existence. Almost as though the very wood is reflected in the puddles of our own world, pointing ever upwards. A place so real and weighty that our world struggles to keep up with it, let alone our own souls. And yet one day the two shall become one; or rather, the one shall be folded up and the other - the surefooted reality - will have its proper place. 

The wood of this world shall be done away with, and on that day we will no longer need the bitterly weak symbols of nature and old books to point upwards any longer, for the real thing will be all about us. The door will be opened at last, the warmth and light of that place shall sweep over us, and we will then have time to rest from our travels - for we will be home. The war will be over and won, and the time to rest among dear friends by the warmth of the fireside will have finally come.