Annie Dillard went to Tinker Creek to explain to me that we sleep to time’s hurdy-gurdy; at Lane’s Landing, for a time, Wendell Berry taught me to rest in the grace of the world and be free; and from Provincetown’s kettle ponds Mary Oliver inquired of my one wild and precious life.
They are all gone now. But I am still here in Green Lake, my own special place, and their words live on in my soul. I go for walks in the woods near my house and consider them.
When I feel lonely, as I often do; and the world seems crazy, as it always does; and even when everything seems right and true—the woods welcome me in. Without pretension. Without proclamation. Without qualification. Without even words. I just know that I am allowed to enter a better, simpler world and breathe.
I prefer the early morning version. Cooler. Damper. Foggier. Quieter. Restful.
The squishy, crunchy sounds of my own steps. The shrill announcements of the birds. The glistening artistry of the spiders. The crisp morning air. The heightened sense of place.
I am no expert in the woods. No Berry or Dillard or Oliver. But I carry their expertise with me like a backpack. Like a trail mix for sweet and savory nourishment. I forget their specific words, but as I look and I listen, I remember their subject matter, and especially the way their poetic gifts made me feel.
And it is enough. Enough to feel like I belong here. Like I always belonged here. Like I belong here better than I belong in other places.
I don’t stay. The occasional visits seem to be enough. They give me something, unnameable, that allows me also to walk through the crazy world, the loneliness, and even the happiness. I believe that Thoreau once said that he left the woods and Walden Pond because if he stayed any longer he might have stayed forever and who can accept such a gift?
(Please don’t Google it. I won’t. I want to believe that is what he said.)
So I don’t stay. But I do return. As long as my body allows, I will return. And when my body no longer allows, I will return in my mind.
And when the time comes that I cannot return even in my mind, I will join friends that I never met on the mysterious other side: Wendell Berry and Annie Dillard and Mary Oliver.
And then, a thought so astonishing that it is hard to believe, I will stay forever and ever, time without end. Amen.
“No wise man ever wished to be younger.” – Jonathan Swift
There are several historical markers regarding the Battle of Nashville from the American Civil War in our new neighborhood, including a monument just north of and less than a mile from our current house. I ran over at dawn last week to remember the fallen, and the early morning fog created an appropriately eerie vibe.
There is much on my mind this Christmas Day, including the great joy to have my little family together and the deep sorrow for friends experiencing great loss, and my best response is to share three short poems from Howard Thurman’s “The Mood of Christmas” — a unity in trinity:
We crossed the Mississippi River bridge in Memphis in the rental car, ironically a Malibu, and remembered what the Arkansas Delta looks like in early winter. Many of the trees had long ago shed their leaves leaving cold bare branches that reach toward the sky, and those still holding leaves that had only recently been brilliant reds, yellows, and oranges had faded to the color of rust and stood clustered together for warmth next to the brown dirt of the silent farmland. The winter sun was setting, and it looked as if someone had plastic-wrapped the entire pastel sky. It isn’t your typical picture of natural beauty, but I now find it strangely wonderful.
