In the woods of my youth, I would tell my dreams to whomever would hear them, usually the swayback mare or the barn swallows who built their nests high in the corn crib. As a child of the country, the forests were my refuge. In the woods I was someone, the narrator of my own life, the one I meant to have.
On summer days I would spend hours looking for insects, reptiles, and amphibians. I was obsessed with their seeming insignificance or disdain felt by most humans. For me, they became worlds beyond worlds, an unseen realm of dreamers keeping track of the earth’s secrets. They saw things most mammals cannot see. They recorded the events of much more complex creatures with their own simple arithmetic of rhythmic chirps and bellows.
In these times, I seek out this refuge, but where do I find it? Gone is my Indiana home of wildflowers and forests skirting the edges of farms. In a desert city, there are few places to hide from the chaotic world. A friend of mine used to refer to the human world as the “meat world” and nature as the “fur world”. The fur world is much more than that. It is the place of plants and stone and soil. It is the water world, and the decomposed humus that reminds us of our death.
One of my favorite places in the woods was a natural sinkhole. I would sit there among the saplings and undergrowth, imagining it to be a cocoon, a sacred bowl that contained protective powers where I would feel safe, where I would speak to God.
For so long, I have been without refuge. What I found was false sanctuary in a bottle, running, un-remembering. In this limbo, I am learning to return to the lessons of insects. What appears to be insignificant can sometimes save. I cultivate a refuge among ant hills and alleyways where coyotes run.
And in my cityscape, I listen to the wild beneath.
The morning was punctuated by the sudden call of a Curved-billed Thrasher. Thrashers are aptly named, and precede all other desert birdsongs with their single, piercing cry that jolts the weary out of slumber. It was this single cry that broke the spell of my twilight meditation.
Like the thrasher, there is nothing quite like a sudden illness to dolt us into awareness. This has been true for me. While I am relatively OK now, there is a constant hum – a background noise – that is ever-present. Something that whispers to me that I am so fragile, that I am just another animal.
Worry is a habit that requires cultivation, and I have been heavily cultivating it in my habits. But these mornings of autumn chill and the late arrival of daybreak, I am prone to forget my troubles.
What calls to you upon waking?
I have been doing a lot of thinking about solitude. What is it about being alone that is so frightening? I had hoped to write a thoughtful post on the topic today, a reflection on the nature of solitude: others’ and my own…. But I am still stuck in the emotion – the visceral kick and groan of the emotion.
Things happened today while considering aloneness. First, I found a dead bird under my office window with no visible signs of trauma. The phone kept ringing all morning, but only static was on the other line when I’d answer. I was also very, very sleepy and it seemed like everything – stroking the cat, editing poems, cooking, yoga, working, driving, watering the plants – had a lull-whisper, a soporific effect. I walked through the day like Dreamtime – whip-tailed lizards of ideas slipped in, then disappeared behind shadows before I could discern their message.
What I gather from this is perhaps I need to be with solitude a little while longer before I dare to decipher its meaning. I am a novice in its presence, a new baby to the distance. I need to observe more. I need some time to know the stranger that resides here.