5.30.13 There She Was, Everywhere At Home

How can I describe how I came upon her, walking quietly in her wooded neighborhood, one late afternoon?

Somewhat lost in the backwoods of Shutesbury, unable to discern one direction from another, no road signs, virtually no inhabitants, as a brief torrential storm began, we drove slowly past a small overgrown cottage …peering out car windows through thick sheets of  rain and the sudden summer wind at  two adult Wild Turkeys, and their tiny clutch of babies, huddled beneath a old crabtree.  

Up one pot-holed road, down another, we veered round corners, gently making our way, no rush to  our  destination.

Finally the sky cleared, and we were surrounded by all living things wetted and thirst quenched, the wetlands and ponds numerous and wild, a blue heron here, wild ducks there, as we slowly drove along the rutted road.

I won't forget her face, as we came upon her, turning slowly toward our approaching car,  long of powerful sinew, jeans and a sleeveless shirt, gangly huge dog loping by her side, her gait of inimical indifference .

Pulling up alongside, who were we, slowing and excusing ourselves, asking our whereabouts?

And look upon us she did,  gaze certain and unyielding as she took us in, nut brown hair cropped inveterately, the two slowing their pace.

And politely she did give us direction, standing now solid and sure before us , for just one economical moment.

I did see her, then.Everywhere at home.

There in her forest and its ancient dirt roads, her canine companion looking guardedly in the car window, a warning in the dark grave eyes, until we thanked her, and proceeded down the road. 

Looking back for a moment, there, the dog did then relax, returning to her side in communion, as they continued once again.

As we resumed our own way, I found myself seared with the depth of her grey eyes. The underscore of stories upon her face, her limbs, her movements. The wisdom of her four footed guardian.

And, too, the stippled scars covering the length of  her beautiful arms; hundreds of age-old slices. Each with its own history, its own song, its own telling of a vital time.  You could almost hear, against all of the rules, each time with its own ancient call and respond. 

This so many, sadly, discover, in their distress, and then so many know not of.

For there are those who harm and injure, and create this necessity. And then deny and push off to another land. Leaving behind the object of their tragic injuries, and all of the unspoken songs and tales and times.

Yet too, here, all were healed. Every moment expressed, secrets told, and somehow over time, not repeated again. So the scars and their fissures seemed replete with evidence of a badge of survival. A brandishing, in those soothing, isolated woods, of certainty, of restoration.

Mended, beautifully, the story told, the song sung, the woman somehow triumphed, and possibly now become whole

 Now safe, now accompanied by her protective companion, deep in these soothing woods.  Arms bared to the trees and the storms and the wind and the heavens, singing their song, and at times, to the occasional passerby.

“Here I am”, I heard as we  drove past,” Witness me everywhere at home.”

Years ago, yet I remember her still.