Anyone who’s ventured through the wooded gates of towering trunks and into the forest knows there’s a beautiful way in which trees absorb sound — leaving the adventurer alone with their thoughts.

At the start of a recent jog down a familiar footpath in a nearby nature preserve, the sound of cars passing by on a nearby road reminded me of everything I was trying to leave behind — everyday chores, daily work. But not 5 minutes in — with yesteryear’s leaves underfoot and the scent of nature thick in the air — and the cars were replaced by a gentle wind that rustled the canopy above. 

Further in, I found a prevailing quiet that transcended sound itself — peace.

And in that deep silence, I rediscovered a familiar rhythm that’s easily lost amid the bustle of productivity: The sound of my breath, which took precedence and fell into step with my footfalls. The worries of the day fell from my brain like rain off an umbrella during a downpour. 

I lost myself in the sweet nostalgic reverberation of birdsong echoing through the woods, which transported me from the present to another place and time. Life is simple.

Above, spring bloomed in slow motion. Tiny buds sprouted from the craggy, outstretched fingers of maple trees. The canopy was awash in red.

Much is declared about the beauty of New England’s autumnal season — and for good reason. As the days turn cold, Mother Nature dons her Sunday best. The trees are afire with color; ablaze with beaty. In this, I wish to take the remainder of this column as an opportunity to express my gratitude for the beauty of New England in the springtime — although I note that takes a little more willpower, under the lethargic hangover of winter, to venture out into nature come spring. It’s far easier to enjoy the beauty the fall, which follow summer’s warmth.

Yet those who do are rewarded by a world that’s awakening from its cold-weather nap. Like I did on that recent trail run, they’ll find wildflowers yawning as sunlight illuminates their color; trees will stretch down their branches in welcome. In the amphitheater of the woods, they’ll find a chorus of American goldfinches, Eastern bluebirds, dark-eyed juncos and the tufted titmouse, which raise their voices above the steady and familiar drum beat of a Red-headed Woodpecker.

Andy Castillo is the features editor at the Greenfield Recorder. He can be reached at acastillo@recorder.com.