Two roads neurodiverged in a wood…

A forest can be quiet, but it can never be silent. There is simply too much there. How many individual leaves are there to rustle? How many insects are there to chitter? How many birds to sing and animals to step? It is not deafening, or even loud, but it is cacophonous.

My mind is like that. It rustles. It chitters. It sings. It does it all at once and it does not stop. I think a thought, but with it is an undercurrent of questions and analysis. There is also the vigilant need to receive and acknowledge sensory input. Cacophony.

There is so much to draw the eye, to take attention. In the forest, there are so many things that move. A gray squirrel rushes up a tree trunk, then pauses, its muscles going taut. A wood thrush swoops by and trills. Two branches clash in the wind, bark scraping bark. A dragonfly darts past making a soft buzz. And where did the squirrel go? Is it there now, on the red path? Or is that another squirrel? There is so much to keep track of. It is difficult to sort it all out.

While a forest may struggle to focus, it can fixate. The trees, flowers, and ferns bend themselves unerringly toward the sun. The forest trails are drawn by the animals that tread it again and again and again. And do not forget that the forest is the place where you are most likely to find a rabbit hole.

What you will not find in a forest is a perfectly straight line. Gaze into the woods and you will see that everything has some bend to it. Tree bark ripples. Grasses taper. Forest paths twist. They cross each other and they diverge.

If you want straight lines you must go to the city. There you can find streets laid in neat columns and rows. There are signals to tell you when to stop and when to start again. There are office hours. There are signs. The advertisement on the digital billboard lasts exactly 30 seconds. The colors of it are a pallet designed with specific intentions, balancing warm and cool, dark and light. The city is orderly. It is regular. It has become typical.

Yet, the focus of the city feels like something imposed by an outside force. It is all calculated. It is coerced into its rigid structure. Obstacles are erected so you conform to its lines. Obey the signals. Conduct your business at these times only. Go where the signs dictate as they tell you exactly what everything is. Everything is labeled and defined. There is clarity, but the things within it are granted only so much control.

That is not to say, as I compare my mind to a forest, that I do not impose any control on it. I thrill within the wilds, but I need order too. So, I have developed a small village where I can organize my thoughts. It is not perfectly symmetrical. The mathematics that give it shape are rudimentary. It contains only a few narrow lanes where I can direct my ideas. This one goes to the smithy and that one to the inn. Here is a thought that requires an apothecary. These few will wait on benches in the town hall until they are called upon.

I do not live in this village. It serves me when I require it, but it does not constrain me. I am free to run back into the wilderness, to meander along its winding paths. There is beauty in its crooked nature. It is mysterious and surprising. I can be swept up in its sounds. And I, too, can rustle and chitter and sing.