May 7, 2023
As I have since last December, I woke up too early with my head full of thoughts about writing, or genealogy, about the lies I was taught about American history, and more recently about the nature of crumbling decades-long friendships and my carelessness with my own boundaries.
After making coffee I sat down at my laptop by the open living room window and heard the song of the mocking bird, who apparently this year, has been unsuccessful in mating and is still singing all night and day in hopes of landing his heart’s desire. He must be a juvenile bird, because his song repertoire is not well developed and he can’t seem to decide which exact spot to claim as his. This is fortunate for me, because he is only occasionally near my windows, open to let in the cool night air. Last year, there was a more mature bird, possibly his father, who decided my neighbor’s tall oak tree was his spot, and had a loud continuous 3 minute song that included his version of a car alarm. HIs song was set on infinite repeat and drove me mad. He was impervious to my swearing at him from my front porch at 3 am and telling him to shut the fuck up. Even in May I had to use my air conditioner and ear plugs just so I could get some sleep. I prefer the open windows that are possible this year.
Yesterday, walking in Lincoln Woods, I noticed that the humans were also engaged in their late Spring time rituals and making a lot of noise.
For three seasons of the year, I’m pretty much out there on my own, except for the dedicated dog walkers and the truly intrepid mountain bikers and the rare rock climbers. I seem to be one of the few people who walk solely for the woods themselves.
Themselves. Yes, all my relations, my four legged friends, my flying friends, my rooted friends, my special friends the boulder people, the sky above me, the air which caresses my skin, sometimes gently, sometimes fiercely, the water that delights my eyes and ears, and the earth which greets my feet and fills my nose with a smell that says I belong here, I am part of this, I am welcomed, I am home. I smile and radiate my love and appreciation right back to all of them.
As the spring slowly unfolds I greet in turn the mosses, the early ferns, which always surprise me, the lichens, the unfolding ferns, the first blooms of the year, the bluets also known as the Quaker ladies, the skunk cabbage and when the action really gets going the peepers who sing for a full month. Then if I’m lucky I hear the chorus of tree frogs that occurs briefly, no more than 10 minutes right before they get down to business. If I am exceptionally blessed I get to see the barred owls mating, as I did last winter on one evening as the day slipped into night. This year, walking with a friend, we saw two hawks in the midday sun screaming their affection for one another, the only time I’ve ever see two hawks in one tree. Yesterday, two months after their announced engagement, I heard a baby hawk crying for food, though I did not see him.
In the winter, without being at all self-conscious I can sing a love song to the deer, who stop and listen and stare at me. If there is snow — there hardly was any this year — I can track the one or two coyotes who remained in the area this last year and learn about their habits. I can sit quietly watching the sun set and listen for the barred owls duking it out for territory.
While the vegetation is dormant I can see the bones of the earth, like the old stone walls that vanish under the briars in summer. This year I found what I took to be the ruins of 18th century human activity — an huge old dam I never noticed before, a stone circle at the bottom of a ravine, and a mysterious long row of old excavated pits stretched out along one side of a ridge over the course of a ¼ mile.
The boulders also get very playful and put on a costume party, though it would be vain of me to think it is for my benefit. “I am a a pod of swimming sea turtles,” says one group. Another solo boulder, as high as my hips, says, “I am a giant tortoise!” I almost always reach down and lay my hands upon that one and listen to what it has to say, which is mostly, “Slow down.” There are dragons emerging from the earth in undulating spines as I trudge up hill. There are nooks and caves. There are stunning arrangements of erratics, that reminds me of modern abstract sculptures that change appearance as the light changes from bright overcast, to sunset, from wet rock to bone dry and in between. Of these I take way too many photographs.
At the top of the hill where I end up after 2 ½ miles of circumambulating and a ⅓ mile uphill trek, I lay myself down on the altar of a wonderful granite bed and I let my darkness drain into the infinite well of the earth’s transforming molten core. My conceit here is that this is “my special boulder,” though I know, because the boulder people told me, I and every so-called living thing are but passing through the guest house of the boulders, who have been here for the last 12,000 years, although even they acknowledge they are but temporary cosmic dancers. Perhaps I am their special human. They did, after all, give me the name Walking Rock, just before I went on my pilgrimage in Scotland last May.
In winter the branches of the towering oaks become the dark lead cames of a stained glass window cathedral that has no walls, only held up by the pillars of the tree trunks. The sky is a magical glass that changes season to season, day to day, and hour to hour, and is of course most admired at sunset, though any time of day will do, and any weather will do, as long as it isn’t torrential freezing rain. I have yet to get there at dawn. Soon I hope.
A month ago the stained glass in the cathedral ceiling began to turn to pale green with specks of carmine. Soon the window leads will disappear, and when I walk down the old crumbling farm road I’ll feel myself enter the womb of green, not to get ahead of myself though. Now. Now. Sacred now. A mile later, I had my moment of my miracle, as I stood over the deep kettle pond that was reflecting the pale green leaves and the trees in a shimmering bowl of magic.
Sacred mocking bird singing outside my window. Sacred cool night air. Sacred sound of a passing car, a person on their way to or from work. As the Eastern sky begins to show the light, sacred morning chorus of birds. Sacred laptop, sacred me, sacred fingers writing words, sacred eyes reading words, sacred you, sacred world.
Yesterday, I was delighted to see a pileated woodpecker, the primordial model for the Woody Woodpecker cartoon character I so loved in my childhood. However the real bird does not sing “Ha-ha-ha-HA-hah! Ha-ha-ha-HA-hah!” But rather a series of staccato gronking cries that make me swear Ive been transported in time or space to a jungle before a particular ape came down out of the trees, lost most of its hair for good and started running after game in the savannah.
But the real show was the display of humans. On the eastern side of the hill, a group of mountain bikers were digging out a deeply trenched downhill S curve. I stopped to talk to them. I admired their industriousness (not really) and asked them not to accidentally kill me in the future and to please make some noise when the spot me on their (reckless) downhill rides (that erode the hills.) They apparently recognized me and remarked that I was one of the sensible people who steps aside as they careen downhill and told me that they noticed that about me but suggested that I not wear earbuds. I tried to explain the transparency feature, but I think the information was lost in the translation.
Half a mile later, I passed the large field on the far side of the park and saw three or four women setting up for a party in the large log shelter. They had arcs of blue and white balloons arranged between the log pillars and were setting up food near the grills. They were dressed in plain pastel fabrics in the modest garb of muslim women. I wondered what the occasion was, a college graduation perhaps, either Johnson and Wales or the University of Rhode Island which have adopted those colors.
As I rounded the circle and started the long hike up the Western side of the hills, long before I saw them I heard a party at a picnic site that sits alone, next to a little stream, at the base of a hill, beneath a huge rock face of 30 feet. It is probably the best picnic site in the park, save the one on the flat rocks next to the pond, away from people. I tried to take in the combination of Latin pop and what turned out to be a kid playing his drum set, with no particular relationship to the rhythm of the pop. He was practicing his drum rolls and cymbal snaps. Even his bass beat lacked synchrony with the snare. About him, I thought, well, he has his dreams and that is something. Then I thought less charitably, “Who brings a drum set to the woods and sets it up in front of a cliff face so the sound can really travel?” I suppose it was his birthday party. At points all the adults cheered in unison. They were happy, celebrating the arrival of warm weather, of the season of picnics in the park. I had to to my version of rushing uphill to avoid getting a migraine. I’m not very fast. Due to my problems breathing I had to stop frequently. Even my sister, who was on the phone with me was suffering the racket.
Up, up, up, climbing up into a massive boulder field, past the dragons and tortoises, I heard what at first sounded like rap. A little closer, rap in Spanish. A little closer and I realized it was not rap, but rather a loudly chanted incantation of prayer with a distinctly Caribbean accent. A bit later, the incantation resolved into a long continuous loudly proclaimed prayer as the Hallelujahs and Gracias Dios became distinct. My curiosity was sparked. I had never heard anyone praying this way, let alone in the woods. As I neared the top of the hill, I realized I realized he was on “my” granite altar. Apparently I am not the only one to recognize the sacredness of that place.
Cautiously approaching I could see a man in a suit, also an uncommon sight in the woods, preaching and praying in front of a tripod with a phone mounted on it. Two men were kneeling on the rock.
I rerouted around the boulder, but at the top of the hill, as is my need and habit, I sat down at a respectful distance to his side. I listened. I heard the words, padre, Dios, señora, gracias, an Hallelujah, milagro and one caliente. Milagro. The miracle in the woods. I felt his genuine feeling of love and praise, and I also felt his fire.
Then he sensed me and turned and preached to me, with upraised hands. I couldn’t tell if he was praising the lord, or imploring me to repent and be saved, or both. I decided to go with praise and I raised my hands to the sky, and when that felt complete placed my hand over my heart. It made me wish I knew more Spanish. When his tripod fell over in the wind and he turned to pick it up, I slipped away and around on the paths that lead to the other side of the top of the hill, so I could visit with the two sculptural kissing erratic boulders, each just a bit smaller than my garage and with whom I have special relationship.
After speaking a bit with another mountain biker who was resting after his uphill ride, I slipped around the far side of the massive couple to find a place to sit facing the overlook above the pond.
A few days ago, going to that spot, I had found a sopping wet and muddy soft fleece blanket, gray and arranged on the flat spot that is somewhat private. No wondering at all, “Why?” I carried it away with the intention of tossing it, but decided later it wasn’t completely irretrievable and threw it in the wash. I may use in whatever kind of sweat lodge I build this year.
Then yesterday, I found the tags for the blanket, which was Vera Bradley, the ribbons that had tied it, and a plastic hanger it had been displayed on. I tossed all of it in my trash bag to carry home and dispose of.
Then I sat and surveyed the scene, the smaller boulders cascading down hill, a bright metallic green beetle, the pale green of emerging leaves on the trees, the distant Olney Pond, the sky, the air, the birds passing by. Even in the season of humans, this is still their place.
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