Lost in the Woods

Planks mark graves lost in the woods.

Imagine feeling invisible.

I don’t mean in the “if you had a superpower for a day, what would it be?” sense. I mean in the profoundly lost, lonely, wandering sense. Yet sometimes, sometimes when we are patient, we remember that while we might be alone, we do not have to be lonely.

You might miss us if you’re wandering this cemetery. Our graves are simply marked by these planks. Most people think they’re driftwood or scrap. Then inevitably, they bend over and try to move the planks aside but to no avail. They’re rooted into the woods as much as the trees flanking us. People rarely walk up here, though, because the rest of the cemetery is down in what seems like a sinkhole. It takes effort to see us, to recognize us.

We have nothing to let people know we are here. Our identities are lost to history, maybe forever. But if someone takes the time, they see the neat rows. The planks laid out just so. The stories lost with us. The history. The lessons. We relish the times we aren’t alone up here. When someone bends down to kick away the leaves and dirt and debris. When the sun hits just right to warm us up, even Mother Nature acknowledges us.

But most days, we have a profound sense of loneliness. Nobody will ever know my story. I am Mac Ramsey, born here in Florida to parents with no college education. I studied hard in school. I played sports - not well, but I tried. I’d rather bury my face in a book and learn something. The ability to sit still and study earned me not only the first bachelor’s degree in my family, but also the first master’s degree in fine arts. My specialty was expressing myself through abstract art. Paint on canvas that looked haphazard but really had a plan. The colors. The movement. The shapes. But the pattern? Oh, the pattern that emerged is where my art came to life.

It was always random at the end. I could only control so much. Indeed, I had to control almost everything in my life until art set me free. It was no mystery why I gravitated toward the chaos. Somehow, though, my art was controlled chaos. I chose what went into it. Who saw it and how. My art was exhibited all over the world. One newspaper writer in 1967 called me “this generation’s avant garde champion.” I saved that review. I brought a copy to my parents’ graveside. I wanted them to see the success I had. I craved it. Once I tasted the spotlight, I never wanted to let it go. So, I pushed and pushed.

But my art also took me away from life. I recoiled into myself, constantly driving for what was next. I had to be chasing, chasing, chasing. Never resting, sitting, staying. The solitude was my downfall. After all my global success and trappings that came with it, I chose to settle on a property deep in the Central Florida woods. Neighbors were spread out, and I would enjoy the silence. I was blissfully lost in the woods.

That same solitude, though, was my downfall. When I got sick, nobody was there to take care of me. I died alone in my house. A neighbor got suspicious when they didn’t see me on the porch reading the morning paper during their morning walks, and they eventually called in a wellness check. A week later.

There is a deep irony that even in death I remain lost in the woods. I am forced into stillness now, but the movement and vibrancy and adulation I craved in life is gone. People walk right by us. It’s an effort to see me and the others buried nearby. We can hear them asking if these are even graves. They don’t ask if we are people. They ask about our corpses, our bodies. Never our souls and spirits.

My greatest nightmare of irrelevance in life has manifested in death. It feels good to be anonymous sometimes, but it quickly wears off when days, months, and even years pass without someone giving us one thought. Being lost in the woods isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.