I’ve never been much of an outdoorsy type of person. I don’t’ like camping. I don’t like hiking. I don’t like rock climbing. I don’t like sweating. I don’t like bugs.

I do like stories of woodland whimsy. I lie the romance with a capital R. I like fairies and sprites. I like talking trees. I like pre-Raphaelite goddesses in long white gowns with flowers in their hair and seduction on their minds. I like the idea of fatal women performing rituals and sometimes sacrifices deep in the heart of the woods, nature pulsing to the beat of their hearts until they become one and their breath becomes the wind, their eyes the stars, and their singing the songs of the birds.

The scene in Anne of Green Gables where Anne acts out Tennyson’s “The Lady of Shalott” has always appealed to me. The first time I ever saw it, I was a young girl, maybe ten or so, and I didn’t yet understand the words. I just understood that I needed to go to the woods and find a lake.

I tried, but my mother kept a tight grip on me, so I resolved to hold that need in my heart until I got older and more independent.

I grew up. I went to college and studied the Romantic Movement. I started to understand the Lady of Shalott’s pull and felt the pull of the woods getting stronger and stronger on my heartstrings.

So I’ve made the move to a little hamlet called Forestburgh, which is not too far from Woodstock and its ultra-hippie, ultra-creative atmosphere. To tell the truth, I’m not too sure what I’m going to do here besides actively and aggressively avoid paying back my student loans and real life in general.

There isn’t much industry here, for that matter. Fine by me. I’m here for the woods, not financial stability. I’ve rented an 800 square foot cabin at the edge of an elderly couple’s eight acre property. My gravel driveway extends for ages past the main road and their own paved driveway, ending just next to my home. It’s a beautiful finished cedar with deep green shingles, shutters, and front door. I’ve got a stonework path leading up to my door and inside is all beautiful wood finishes, a large stone fireplace, books, and shabby yet comfortable furniture. I’ve got a large apron sink in my kitchen and an antique claw-foot tub in my bathroom. All my windows look out at the woods that are threatening to encroach on my home and I never, ever want to leave this place. I don’t think I will.

The summer air is alive with the bees, the chirping of the crickets, and the songs of the birds. I love to sit in my linen bathrobe with all the windows open, breathing in the atmosphere and writing, writing, writing. There are times when seven hours fly by in my peaceful waking moments and I haven’t moved from my desk.

When I woke up this morning, though, something felt different, new, ready. Today is the day I will enter the woods and see what they offer to me, to see if they will accept what I offer in the way of adoration.

I drank my morning earl grey and ate an apple and an English muffin while I looked out at the edge of the woods and imagined that the breeze was turning the leaves upward into a hand beckoning me to come this way. I finished my breakfast and got ready for my day.

I opened my wardrobe and pulled the antique pink Edwardian Chantilly lace wedding gown out. I found it in a thrift shop when I was a teenager and I was awed by its delicate and ornate structure and I knew I needed it. When I was younger, I assumed it would be the gown I would wear to my own wedding, but it seems it has a higher calling. I was saving it for today, now I know. I braided my long auburn hair loosely and threaded light blue flowers around my crown. I donned my pearl anklet and looked in the old, cracked mirror. Radiant. Romantic. Ready.

Soon after six in the morning, I set out, barefoot, into the woods.

Only reapers, reaping early

In among the bearded barley,

Hear a song that echoes cheerily

From the river winding clearly,

                                Down to tower’d Camelot:

And by the moon the reaper weary,

Piling sheaves in uplands airy,

Listening, whispers, “’Tis the fairy

                                Lady of Shalott”

 The earth feels cool and damp beneath my feet. The silence of the world welcomes me and for the first time in my life, I feel like I’m home. The leaves along the path are springy and soon the hem of my gown is dirty and wet. It’s no matter.

But in her web she still delights

To weave the mirror’s magic sights,

For often thro’ the silent nights

A funeral, with plumes and lights,

                                And music, went to Camelot:

Or when the moon was overhead,

Came two young lovers lately wed;

“I’m half-sick of shadows,” said,

                                The Lady of Shalott

 I walk through the shadows the trees cast upon the woodland floor, weaving my body to and fro between darkness to sunlight. The humming of the birds is my hymnal, guiding me through my rites.

She left the web, she left the loom,

She made three paces thro’ the room,

She saw the water-lily bloom

She saw the helmet and the plume,

                                She looked down to Camelot:

Out flew the web and floated wide;

The mirror crack’d from side to side;

“The curse is come upon me,” cried

                                The Lady of Shalott

 I approach the clearing in the copse of trees and see a shimmering lake, vast in its expanse, and tied up at its edge is a small weathered boat.

Lying, robed in snowy white

That loosely flew to left and right—

The leaves upon her falling light—

I lie down and look up to the cloudless sky. I sing sweetly about sacrifice—willing that my body and soul will lead love flourishing freely, for my mother to live unobstructed by my obstinacy.

For ere she reach’d upon the tide

The first house by the water-side

Singing in her song she died,

The Lady of Shalott

 I raise the knife and drive it deeply into my heart. It takes three tries to plunge it hard enough and deep enough to puncture my love.

My blood starts pooling around the lace and I immediately know this is a mistake. But it’s too late. I turn my face to the sky and wait for it to end.

Who is this? And what is here?

And in the lighted palace near

Died the sound of royal cheer;

And they cross’d themselves for fear;

                                All the knights at Camelot:

But Lancelot mused a little space;

He said, “She has a lovely face;

God in his mercy lend her grace,

The Lady of Shalott”

 “Holy shit, is that woman bleeding?” is the last thing I hear before I drift off.

I woke up strapped to a hospital bed this morning.