Thomas Erickson
May 2020; June 2024
I am up to my armpits in a field of witch hazel. A thousand fingers pluck at my clothes as I push forward. The hazel obscures the ground and makes forward movement slow and halting. I can’t make out where I’m headed. I lurch through a furrow. Cold soaks my right shoe as I step into a water-filled depression. I slip on a charred bit of log. It is a hot, sweaty, claustrophobic experience. This is not what I expected from a course in Forest Ecology.
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How does one design a new life?
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