Finns are forest people and know how to move in the forest with a sure foot. The wind humming on tree crowns and dwarf shrubs rustle against the ankles. A foot thumbs against the tree root, and a cobweb clings to your face. I fail my arms trying to get the cobweb off my face while firmly keeping my eyes looking forward. I lift my leg and tread carefully to see if ground is deceiving or uneven.

Walking in the woods is different, somehow more front-footed. I stop to marvel at the highway of ants, a road that leads to their hill. At the same time, I admire the tiny bells of the lingonberry. So many beautiful things in the forest are tiny little, so small that people have to bend over to admire.

I listen to birds singing here and there. You can hear them better than you can see them. A forest is, in a way, a chaotic place. There are no straight lines, no straight branches. However, the atmosphere is loose. The trees are elderly, and the forest’s order has taken shape. Everything is within a suitable distance from their neighbor, the rootstock conveniently tightly attached to the rocky ground. Everyone has a role to play in a community where coexistence, symbiosis is both a cause and a consequence.

I sense a lot in the forest, many sounds, smells, and colors. I also recognize the feeling coming inside me, a great appreciation and admiration for the forest.