I'm Major Jackson, and this is the slowdown.

One beautiful morning last summer, I rushed to hit the trails.

If I had any common sense, I would have waited a couple days after the previous night's

rains.

The forest floor was mucky, so shortly into my height I tripped and slid down the slope

on the side of the mountain.

I was in some pain and helped my left wrist, grimacing, I panned the ground.

My face opened and surprised, and then opened some more in wonder.

Here before me was a patch of porcelain white flowers that I'd never seen before, growing

in the wild.

In fact, I had never seen anything like them here in the Muslim region of Vermont's

Green Mountains.

They were eerie, translucent stalks, huddled in clusters.

Their heads hanging as if embarrassed by my having discovered them.

An image that reminded me of a Rodan sculpture, the Burgers of Calais.

I had landed in a field of ghost pipes, the monotropa uniflora.

They looked like flowers from the underworld.

Things with nature can transfigure us.

Have us think differently, put us in harmony with it, and possibly with each other.

This might be part of its survival circuitry.

There's that colorful, land-tannabush in bloom in your yard, or a spread of wild, aster

deep in the forest saying, hey, over here, take notice, I'm precious, don't trample me.

...