Inquisitive Adventures

“But some day you will be old enough to start reading fairy tales again.”
— C. S. Lewis

Our weekend started Friday evening with rainy fall skies that melded into watercolor oranges, pink, and gold as the sun broke free from the grey clouds. I don’t know why, but I have this feeling that the music from Lifehouse was created for fall. Maybe it’s the nostalgia of these bands, riding in the car with my mom on rainy fall days, or the way their songs bring me to a reflective place. I cooked butter chicken, and we took our coffee to the porch to sit in cool air for a few minutes, watching the sun set. Weekends for me always start with a second cup of coffee.

This weekend, my husband and I found ourselves on a mission. We were searching for trolls. There are two, maybe four things I love: art, nature, stories, and adventure. A few years ago, I learned about this park that is home to trolls. These trolls can be found in many places across the United States and the world. Thomas Dambo is the artist who created them. He makes them from recycled wood, and there are even stories he writes for them. I knew when I learned of their existence, I had to find them. The trolls closest to us are over an hour away.

We gave ourselves a slow morning, then we headed to find the trolls with clear blue skies above and perfect October warmth. As we drove, we talked about life, ministry, and seasons ending. We found a Buc-ee’s (my husband loves Buc-ee’s) and stopped, spending more than intended on snacks that we shared for lunch. As we approached the park, we saw a bald eagle flying.

We made it to the parking lot and started walking toward our first troll, named Little Bibbi. We entered the woods and continued our existential conversation, the forest surrounding us quiet except for the occasional green walnut falling through the leaves and branches, hitting the ground with a hard thud on the forest floor around us.

As we exited the woods, she slowly emerged in the middle of a clearing with tall grass. I let myself observe Bibbi’s height her arms outstretched towards the sky daring to fly. Visitors to the park are welcomed to hug the trolls. I let myself notice the detail and appreciated another’s creativity.

There is an observation deck, and we climbed the steps to have a different view of Bibbi, then followed the path back into the forest, making our way to the second troll named Bo.

As we talked, I took notice of the trees and details of the woods, finding birds’ nests and other wonders of nature. I found myself breathing deeper, enjoying this new place.

I heard rustling above me. The same rustling we’ve heard throughout this walk, the releasing of walnuts to the earth. As if I just knew, something told me to cover my head, so I listened. As the rustling grew louder, I placed my hands over the back of my head, and a couple seconds later, I felt a heavy force hit me with the same thud we had been hearing the entire walk.

My husband asked, shocked, “Did that hit you? I heard a loud thud that didn’t sound normal?” I laughed, surprised, then explained I put my hands up and that my head was safe. I stare at my right hand, now red and swollen from the hit.

Marveling at how I offended them.

My entire life walking in woods, I’ve never been hit by one till today. I cherished this moment. This story. Then we found Bo, who we almost walked past due to the shock of the forest’s war cry. He was hidden down by a small creek at the bottom of a hill.

We said our hellos, then walked back up a hill towards our third and final new friend, Bodil.

Once again, we exited the woods to find a farm. We walked through it, following the path until we found more woods to see Bodil on her hands, holding a propane tank.

My husband took a break and sat on a log while I walked around her as the sun peeked through the woods behind her, illuminating the back of her head.

It has taken me two years to make time to finally meet the trolls. I think this is the funny thing about being grown up. We trade imagination for a stale mirage of it. I’ve found myself reflecting and learning that my imagination has changed with adulthood. Where it has become a way for picturing the next thing, whether it is the weekend, vacation, or season, rather than living in the world of creativity and possibilities. A walnut falling and hitting me in the head awoke me to this lesson. If I didn’t make space for this adventure, then I wouldn’t have the story to tell of how I met a family of kind trolls in the woods and survived the attack of the trees.

I like to think that life is a story that both happens to us and we create. I wonder how many of us are stuck in the sameness of life, her stresses, woes, expectations of adulthood, that we have forgotten that we can break away and befriend trolls.

I love this Madeleine L’Engle quote:

“In art we are once again able to do all the things we have forgotten; we are able to walk on water; we speak to the angels who call us; we move, unfettered, among the stars.”

Is a story a story if it is the same monotony on repeat? Or is it about opening our eyes to the hidden extraordinary in our ordinary circumstances?

I wonder if real adult life is remembering our imagination and returning to the fairy tales we have forgotten.