The following entries are poems and journal writings from my youth in the 1970's
A Walk in the Woods
We
arrive in the afternoon…
the
day is bright and crisp.
We
begin to walk, each a separate path.
I go
to the skeletal woods
where
summer’s lush green
has
dried up and dropped to the ground.
Every
foot step crackles in the leaves,
squirrels
sound as big as deer.
I
have brought the city with me:
my
thoughts are of work, of anger, of worry.
I
keep walking, feeling how good
it is
just to breathe, just to breathe.
A
breath of wind
I
stop to listen
then
turn to see a deer
standing,
whole and perfect
in
the middle of the road.
We
stare silently
then
he bounds into the forest
white
tail lifted high.
I
walk on
see
more deer -
the
woods are full of deer.
I am
tired.
I lie
down in the forest
close
my eyes and become still.
After
a while I become aware
of a
sound that has been going on for some time.
I
open my eyes –
A big
buck is approaching.
He
hasn’t seen me yet.
He
walks slowly
he is
alone.
He
sees me -
runs
a few paces
stops
to stare
then
slowly walks away
retracing
his path with light, hopping steps.
I
rise, see how close the sun is to setting
and
head homewards
through
the forest.
At first,
I walk with no path
with
only the knowledge of the river bluffs to guide me.
Then
I cross and follow deer paths.
The
sun has set.
I
watch the horizon
the
forest darkens
Nov
5, 1977 Journal entry
Saturday
I saw no deer. I walked down by the river, back
into the slough, all things brown until I got to the springs seeping out at
the base of the bluff. The quiet seepage building into little trickles,
gathering into little streams flowing into river bottomlands sloughs and
finally into the river. So peaceful – watercress so green where the water ran,
and such good water. I sat for a long, long time. Heard shooting in the
distance.
Sunday
I went walking, early. Brand new, wet
mist falling, all things glistening, the colors rich and dark, the fields and all the countryside so beautiful. All weekend I’d been
walking, doing nothing but walking, soaking in the softness and beauty of the
country like a dry sponge. I was part of it all. I was enthralled by the bright green of a mullein plant among all the fall hues of brown, – a
strong, yet delicate presence in the landscape, the listening ear of the fields.
Sumac, deep red rain-soaked berries, and all the autumn colors of reds to browns to greys - all so beautiful.
I walked back, came to the top of a hill, stood
to look upon the land. Val walking below, beautiful red hair. She made her way
up the hill to me, we faced each other – she glowing, beautiful. Our meeting
did not break the spell of silence. We spoke a few words. She seemed to have
something to say, yet didn’t speak and I didn’t ask. We walked back to the
cabin. After a while she said she’d seen a dog sitting next to me when I was
standing on the hill. When I moved, he got up and moved with me. She said it
seemed very in tune with me, alert to everything. Then she got up to the top of the hill and
there was no dog. She almost asked,
“Where’s the dog?” then realized that it was a spirit dog.
The night before we’d played with the dog, Tigger, in the
hills, in the dark under a brilliant, starry sky. We rolled in the tall grass with
him, wrestled, played, loved him. Tigger held my hand in his mouth. I felt his joy
and liveliness, the dog spirit in him. The day before, after seeing so many
deer, I came out to the forest, in darkness, with just a glisten on the grass
in the night, and I remembered holding Farouk (my cat) in my lap, stroking his
fur. Now I walked upon the earth, the grasses her hair, and I felt the
earth as a living being, a life with a spirit. I walked upon her fur.
After breakfast on Sunday I went walking in the woods. I heard four rapid shots down by the
river. I knew it was a deer hit. I went down, drawn to the scene, drawn to see,
to witness the slaughter. Fear and horror in the forest. I felt it, and walked
in the river bottom lands, - the peace and harmony gone. Then I saw it –
bright red drops of blood on the oak leaves. And then more blood, a trail of
blood spattering the forest floor, the wounded deer followed a deer
trail, fleeing fast, leaves covered with blood, wet, fresh,
the shots having ripped through flesh, it having happened only moments ago. The horror of these hunters who kill for sport, with no feeling for what they
do. A deer, symbol of innocence, of wildness being blasted. Why? [Perhaps they needed the meat? I was a vegetarian back then, with no tolerance for meat eaters.] I followed the trail until it disappeared. I ran
into a hunter, who wanted to know where my husband was. I just stood there,
looking at the blood. He couldn’t figure me out.
That night, Val and I prayed before our meal and
to the spirit of the deer: “Please forgive us humans for what we do.”
The next day, still grey, - it had been grey and misting
all weekend. I walked again. Saw a blasted apart grouse and again found blood down by the river. I picked up a leaf with blood on it, then buried
it in the sand with a prayer that no more deer be killed. “May the weather be
bad, stormy, wet and cold so that no one will want to hunt.”
Four days of walking in the soft grey and brown
country, blood on the mat of oak leaves covering the river bottomlands.
-----------------------
Finally…
the end of hunting season.
It has
been a nightmare, all this killing. Even here in the city I feel it, the part
of me that belongs to the country, feels it, and suffers with the forest creatures.
Squirrels, deer, grouse, pheasant. I walked in the forest and felt how it
was changed. Quiet. Deadly. Gone the nurturing deep peace I seek there.
Squirrels cautious, their movements stilled, the breath of the forest stalled.
I felt it, felt how it was for the creatures, being hunted, running, hiding,
always alert, watchful, uneasy, because that is how it was for me – a woman, seeking solitude, remoteness in the country. The refuge I seek, the nourishment, the rest for my city-battered
soul, the oneness I experience with the land, the flow of my spirit – all
denied, broken into, intruded upon, invaded. Behind every tree the
threat of a man with a gun. I am feeling terribly sensitive, closer to sensing the spirit of
things. [Note: Partly because I was so ill with something that had no diagnosis and
that mysteriously went on and on for months, with relapse after relapse, and which years later
was diagnosed as Lyme Disease.]
Such ecstasy in being in the country - the deep, deep touching down into my soul, the relief, the
pleasure, the deep fulfillment of walking in the country. And the other
world, the beyond-ness, is coming through stronger and stronger. More and more
I am present with it. The manifestations have been numerous. I am awe at the appearances: a raccoon walking up
to me, a red fox frisking in the grassy hills, a fat badger sunning herself by
her hole, and deer approaching close, suddenly jerking away. Their presences always so sacred.
And we've been coming to the country often, every week this summer, so
that Val and I saw the changes in the land, the bursting life, flowering, fruiting and
dying. All the different wildflowers: bloodroot, marsh marigolds, skunk
cabbage, rue anemone, asparagus, dogwood, dogbane, basswood, Jack in the
Pulpit, Forget-me-nots, black-eyed-Susan's, sunflowers, northern bedstraw,
harebell, mullein, bread and butter, the prairie grasses: big and little
bluestem, slough grass, needle and thread, Canada wild rye, Indian grass, wild
oats, and ragweed. Blessed holy thistle, goldenrod, butternuts, raspberries,
blackberries, wild plums, wild grapes, ground cherries, choke cherries,
gooseberries, wild staghorn sumac, poplars, birch, oak, white pine,
cherry, juniper, and boulders, and the
river, the blue vervain, swamp milkweed, beaver, fish, weasel, geese, carp,
willow trees, sand bars, river current, river sands, river mud, ahhh………
And then there was the meteorite that arced
before us one night just as we stepped out of the forest. For several hours, we had been walking as darkness descended in the forest. The forest opened up into the fields and hills, the breath of the night air flowed towards us from the fields, and the
ground suddenly lit up at our feet. We looked up to see a meteorite pass over the fields, a glowing ball of fire, silent as a star.
___________________________________________________________
after hunting season is over
spirit
of all deer
turn
your listening ears
to
the face of winter
the
season of leaves and hunters and fear is over
after
the wildness of your fear
healing
snows restore
the
even breath of the land,
blows
steady
becomes
tame
the
air gives up its turbulence
quiet
is upon the land
not
as before -
when
even the owls were silent
_________________________________________________________
Journal writings October 30, 1974
Ceremony for the end of my first love affair
I
am waiting for the explosion on the other side of the ocean in Rome,
where Angelo will read my letter and it will all be over. I still have
not admitted, deep down in myself, that it is over. I feel I have burned
my own dwelling, I have overturned my own couch on which someone was
resting, I have pricked the skin and harmed he who was sleeping on the
couch...there is mostly darkness.
I
had found a stick that twisted around itself forming a loop, a union,
and I held it for a long time, feeling it was a symbol that held some
obscure meaning. I ran through the forest on deer
paths, through dense clusters of frilly green ferns as dusk turned to
darkness. I ran holding the looped stick in front of me, as a THING to hang on to.
I
reached the river bottomlands and saw the smooth, black water and
smelled the cold river mud. My feet sank into the mud as I walked
quickly, not even sure where I was. Coming out of a ravine, I crossed
the road to the river. I followed the road, running in the near
darkness, holding the stick high above my head, panting. I came to the
river bank and crouched on the sand until it became very dark.
I
walked up the steep road bordered on either side by thick forest. At
the top, the road opened into the field, the air rushed at me, turning
grass heads all in the same direction. I looked to my left and saw the
full moon, big as a Chinese gong hanging over Lightning Hill. I was
dazzled. I bent and swayed, dancing to the moon, holding the stick in
both hands high over my head like an offering. There was a feeling of
some kind of ritual enactment as I held up the stick hoop and looked
through it at the moon. On impulse I broke the stick with my two hands,
then cried at what I had done. I felt a lonely pain well up inside me.
"What have I done? I shouldn't have broken it!" A sense of loss filled
me. "But I had to do it!" I spoke aloud.
Something
sacred had been broken. That stick had been an intact hoop of meaning only
a moment ago. I had carried it through the forest and down to the
river, then back up to the moonlit field. Now it was just cold, dead,
broken sticks I held in my hands. And so it was done.
Feeling
the deep loss, I felt I had to give it some dignity, honor what had
been. I walked to the top of Lightning Hill, built a little fire and
burned the broken hoop. I felt the final spurt of warmth it gave off in
yellow flames. I added some wood to the fire. The flames grew higher,
the fire warmer. I could have gone on all night tending and feeding the
flames, but I let the flames sink and finally flick out, leaving the
grey ashes and red smouldering coals.
It's over. Over, all over.
I went back to the cabins to sleep.
