Two Ways: to be in the world

Impressionistic (i.e. blurry) deer and fawn near a central Iowa lake

Poetry

Here’s “Snowdrops” by Louise Glück

Journeying

(1) We arrived at the lake early enough to see the mist still hovering over the water. M’s paddle boards are inflatable. We pulled them out of the back of her car, unfolded them, and used an electric pump to fill the boards. I connected the two pieces of my paddle. M showed me how to attach the plastic fin to the bottom of my board, then demonstrated how to pick up and carry the whole contraption to the shore of the lake. Once there, she showed me how to launch myself with minimal dramatics.

We paddled out onto the water; I sat back on my heels. M was already standing. The mist had disappeared. We followed the lake’s edge and talked. A big white bird flew overhead. “Is that a heron?” I asked M. “That’s a Great Egret,” she answered. I watched the bird’s white wingspan as it traveled above me. Later, we spotted another long-necked, long-legged bird. M said this one was a smaller egret. We heard voices from walkers on the path around the lake. We’d already seen two groups on horseback making their own way around. Two young men launched an inflatable kayak and began fishing in the middle of the lake. The sun got hotter, and I realized that I’d forgotten to wear sunscreen.

I decided to try and stand up. At this point, I had switched from sitting on my heels to sitting cross-legged. I switched back. I put one foot, then the other on the board. I started to stand. My whole body began to shake. I sat back down and determined that I did not need to stand up on a paddle board to enjoy the lake. M smiled and told me my way would work.

I told M that I loved being in the natural world but that I didn’t want to listen to it. I was afraid of the pain I expect to feel if I do. The non-human world is hurting. People aren’t helping. I told M that I wasn’t sure I could hold any more suffering. We passed a wooden deck built out over the water, the railings decorated in white tulle and bows, leftovers from a weekend wedding.

M said, “Maybe, you don’t need to try to connect with nature like that. Maybe because you have the mother wound, you’re already there.” I don’t know much about the “mother wound” as therapists define it. I do know that my mom loved me, that I tried to take care of her, that she abandoned and betrayed me. I know that this blew a wide hole through my chest.

I took a deep breath. I said, “Thank you, that helps.” Then we paddled toward the shore and left the lake as quietly and with as little disturbance as we had arrived.

(2) Back home, I’m not paddling but running around a small lake in central Iowa. I’ve remembered my sunscreen but am afraid sweat has washed away most of it. Staghorn sumac, tall coreopsis, and raspberry canes line the trail and hide my view of the lake. Spent leaves blow across the path. I move my limbs, breathe, let my mind spin, and avoid slippery acorns and ankle turning black walnuts.

I run trails and bike through cornfields. I kayak rivers and lakes. In the winter, I pull on Carhart insulated coveralls and crampons and negotiate snowy paths. In the summer, if I am very lucky, I enjoy a wild swim in a lake. I also sit down and paddle board across still water. I move through nature, and it moves through me.

I reach the top of another hill and stop to look and listen. I can see the lake below me, the path back to my car. I can see the gravel road that brought me here, the one that coats my car in white chalk dust when I drive it. A cold front is coming in. The wind blows my damp body dry. It blows through the hole in my chest and reminds me that I’m still here.

Gardening and Making/Mending

Sun Gold tomatoes, red honeysuckle, and a spider web

The gardening section of this newsletter has been a little light on actual, hands-in-the-dirt, gardening over the last couple of months. Travel and the discombobulation of children leaving home don’t inspire the rooted work of tending place. Instead, they produce in me the sensation of being over-caffeinated. I float and vibrate through my days, looking for a place to land. Once I find it, I am unable to fix myself. I’m like the monarch butterflies that land on what’s left of the Mexican sunflowers and zinnias. They flit, touch, and move on. Their journey is a long one.

If you’re keeping track of my sweater progress, you’ll be happy to know that the sweater I’m knitting myself now has two complete sleeves and a few more inches of body. Cool weather is here, mostly, and the temperatures encourage me to pick up my needles. The picture on the left is tiny a hint of what’s coming up in A Thin Space Handmade Item Raffle. Every quarter, I make something and raffle it off to my paid subscribers. Last quarter’s item was the neckerchief also pictured above. If you’re not a paid subscriber, and would like your name included in the raffle, please subscribe below.