I don't know if it's I forget that being in the woods heals me, or I don't realize I need healing.

With quiet tears and a drink in my hand (there's always a drink) I picked up that tool I still don't know the name of and pulled out a few dandelions. I don't dislike the dandelions. Their bright yellow cheers me.

forsythia, daffodil, jonquil, buttercup...

The first month of the year - I've officially decided my year begins with the Spring - the bright yellow glows from every corner and hedge, a beaming affirmation. But I was going to talk about the woods.

I dug the small handfuls of dandelions -dente lyon, lion's tooth - from the bed at the east edge of the garage, then from among Margie's Irises (forever capitalized) - I don't like iris that much myself, especially not rows of them inconveniently between the house and garden, the garage and garden, the woodpile and woodshed, "don't park there, you'll crush Mom's Irises," but I'm friendly toward flowers, so I'll do what I casually can to make their lives healthy and beautiful.

At the eastern end of the south side of the garage there's a stand of monarda, red bee balm, small clumps given me by Paula that are now (and have been, for two years) six-foot tall stalks topped with bright red pompoms. I was looking for a better modifier than "bright," but nothing adequate-yet-not-pretentious swam to the front of my mind. I'm trying to just blurt and do my correcting later --to keep the artist and editor apart-- but that'll take conscious practice. It's not something I can just *do*.

As I came near the monarda their strong lemon scent reached out to me, though right now the plants themselves resemble nothing so much as stalks of straw haphazardly standing on end. I used my ...digging stick, I'll call it... to pull a few dandelions, breathing deep my favorite perfume - citrus. I don't yet see sawtoothed oval leaves that'll herald this years' growth, but knowing the strawlike stalks are unnecessary I broke most of them off near the ground. An excuse to stay in that heady scent longer. I noticed a stalk I must have pulled instead of broken; it ended in a tiny rootball, no bigger across than my thumbnail. I was finished with the monarda, saw no pressing reason to pick up those straws and the few dandelion clumps, but instead took three of these rootclumps to the fence, behind the woodpile, under the pine and south of the black walnut, corkscrewed a hole with my digging stick and planted them. If they grow, if they grow they'll be tall and dark green, saw-toothed leaves below red pompoms, intoxicating lemon scent attracting bees and butterflies. Maybe hummingbirds too. If they grow, they'll be a casual gift to the neighbor whose fence they'll droop against. I must have still had thoughts of picking up those sticks and roots, because I wandered back to that end of the yard. The grass was green all winter; that's fescue for ya; but this weekend there's come a new dimension to the greenness. Deeper. Brighter. Fresher. My bare feet felt the green, the grass not crushed nor intimidated but welcoming the new experience of feet walking on it. Rustling noises came from the woods across the little creek. It's not really a creek, more a run-off from out of the hills. It pleases me to call it Creek. Across the creek the hill rises not more than eighty feet, steep and shaded by small trees. No grass grows on the hillside, instead generations of dead leaves form a rustling carpet over rich mulch which feeds the trees that drop the leaves. I stood still a long while but didn't see the thrasher. Not seeing makes me no less sure I was hearing a brown and white speckled bird, busy digging bugs among the leaves. I could have turned back to the house, but maybe by now my psyche had woken and was urging my feet on, on to the healing wood. As I neared the barn high-pitched yipping made me turn back to the house. The tricolor mutt stood on her hind legs against the fence, frantic because the goldbrown mutt had jumped the fence, a trick she hasn't mastered (and with luck never will). As the brown dog loped toward me, trailing her spotted tongue to one side, I stooped and picked up a rock. When I straightened and looked again, she'd turned and was heading back to the house, head and tail down. I don't think I've thrown a rock at her more than once, and certainly never hit her with one. My aim isn't what it was ten years ago. Maybe other arms have thrown other rocks. I dropped mine back to the ground, lost sight of the brown dog, but when the tricolor turned away from the fence and headed to the front yard, I knew she'd jumped back in. I like to see and hear stuff when I'm in the woods. I don't want dogs chasing everything away and kicking their own paw prints over every track in my path. I turned back toward the barn and heard a board shift as something moved across it. The grey cat looked like ours, but there are strays, and grey strays too. I called his name three times before he acknowledged me. Then he walked to the woods with me. Mosquitoes are breeding in the deeper puddles where the creek crosses the road. I thought about making a small trench, to make the water flow faster, but the mosquitoes would just lay their eggs somewhere else. I don't know what purpose mosquitoes serve. Maybe I can find dragonfly larvae and encourage them to hang around, the dragonflies eating mosquitoes while their larva eats mosquito larvae. Maybe I'll build a bat house.

I don't know why I don't walk in the woods more often when I need healing. Maybe it's because I forget.