The inner compass has gone awry; it spins in dizzying circles. I cannot seem to get my bearings in the middle of this deep wood. I smother panic before it consumes, placing one step in front of the other, despite path unknown.

I wander until I come upon a small clearing with a pond, beautiful and haunting.

Love once lived here. Presence lingers through Space and Time, palpable, undeniable.

It is all so familiar; the wind creaking through the oaks and poplar, singing through the pines and hemlock, is a song my soul once sang, even as I am a stranger here:

The heart once known, always knows.

The dulled inner compass lurches to attention, spiraling in excitement, then pauses; I feel it click back into place, red needle locked once again toward North.

But it is not pointing in the direction I expected.

I look around, bewildered despite the beauty.

Can one ever trust again a compass compromised by relentless outside magnet? A chill runs up my spine; the unseen force draws near, pulling, overpowering and overwhelming all practical sense of grounded direction; this compass has become unreliable.

Frustrated to the point of no return, I reach into the depths of me, pulling the compass and its attached bloodied and bruised heartstrings out; I fling it across the depths of dark water, seeking some sort of clarity, unburdening and relief. It all sinks down into oblivion.

I sigh, my soul still weighted, heavy, somber.

I look for the sun, craning my neck in every direction — I should be able to see it now that I’ve found this clearing from out of the dark depths of the forest; I trust it would offer me some outside source of direction, but it remains hidden, clouded, enshrouded. I cannot move forward in any direction without fear of becoming even more lost. I am already so estranged from what my soul knows as home; I am aching for it with every fiber of my being. If only I could find the way back! But there is nothing more to do at this point; with my inner compass gone, I must wait until the skies reopen and the sun speaks soft and clear to me.

Here I stand; and here is this place set before me:

The mirrored, black pond waters and the ghosts who glide silent beneath the surface edge; the thick, hovering fog and valley mist obscuring detail, diluting these surroundings into simple shapes and forms; the surrendered trees of Winter standing by, raindrops dangling, hanging heavy from forked, bare branches; the forest floor damp with fallen leaves who once were lush in Summer’s prime and thrill; dotted distant evergreens, resolute in their tender, faithful watch; close knit mountain laurel and rhododendron nooks neighbor there nearby, harboring shifting shadows across the way, whispering secrets of some passionate past beneath their bent, crooked boughs; moss and lichen and Time’s swift passing cover any fingerprints that might have ever wished they could remain; and turning, last I see, much to my great grief and shock, resting there upon the knoll — a hidden cabin, forlorn and empty, a place once filled and lit alive by dreams. It peeks out now from behind chaotic mounds of out-of-season wild roses and prickly black raspberry bramble, barren; piles of disintegrating logs meant for warmth and merriment crumble beside slight concaving walls. The roof, poor neglected thing, is nearly collapsing in upon itself. The secluded cabin sits silent, still, bereft, abandoned — but somehow? Somehow, as I stand here waiting, lost, forlorn myself, I know this forgotten place has been left here, waiting, too —

The sun breaks through, shining bright, illuminating all around. He smiles down, tender-eyed; the morning dew glistens with glee. In a moment, in a twinkling, he speaks his message to me:

Oh, sweet soul — don’t you yet know?

Your compass brought you home.

— Rebekah Brackett