I woke early, with the crisp spring breeze
moving the bedroom curtains, quietly undulating with the winds that
circle our globe. Much to the consternation of the Shepherd pup, wired
to view all new things with suspicion and the necessity to protect.
Slowly opening my eyes, feeling the weight of small Shiva Louisa
pressed up by my side, her tenacious elder years holding out for the
still sheer delight of standing outside, bared of collar or leash, to
sniff the fox deep in the West woods; the possum that meandered in the
night; as she steps down the brick path, and chooses where she will
go...to pee, to sniff, to check always the site of the cage of rabbit
next door, who she liked -who is now taken by the wild animals. To
snuffle into the new green wild growth, and wander by the emerging
wildlife pathways, cut beneath fern and wild rose and blackberry, by the
frequency of wildlife passing, those things so invisible to us we
sometimes think we, in fact, are the only ones here.
The
greatest thing I miss, come winter, when we batten down the hatches, is
this constant infusion of fresh air. The thing I missed most living
anywhere not surrounded by clean air ; the open window ushering in cool
nourishment.
Last year I remember staying overnight in NYC-
the country mouse and all. The view from the room's window, of Central
Park. And on past that, the very tip of the Met, calling to us. Over to
the right, The American Museum of Natural History, just visible. The
sheer volume of neighborhoods and peoples and lives. I opened the
window, and in the early morning, it wasn't so bad...seemed nice to
welcome in the air of the place, the people, and whomever else lived
there. (Coywolves in Central Park!)
Because in the country, the
scale is so very small. So quiet. The wildlife outnumber you, as do the
trees and Sweet Fern and beetles and seedlings. You are one of many,
and unable to forget for one moment. And you are only human, not some
ultimate species destined to determine the lives and deaths of all
living things, and planet. You are so much smaller and in such good
company.
Not that this is a Disney movie, for there are tiny
ants beginning to consume the almost dead Monarch caterpillar I picked
up. Yes. There are the Cow Birds, so sleek and black with luscious brown
heads, whose destiny is to lay their clutch of eggs in one nest after
another, and then depart. It is their genes. And their progeny must and
will hatch and toss out the biological hatch lings of the parents, and
garner all the feeding and care for themselves.
And for days
now, the Turkey Vultures pass overhead, circling with their elegance,
with what I see as their singular beauty, and purpose, too- blocking the
sun momentarily, letting us know that someone has died or been prey,
and that there are remains to clean up- which of course, is their
genetic destiny also.
And we have the incessant small birds,
painfully protesting as they circle and fly at the crow carrying away
some form of their young ones. But these things happen. They happen all
round the globe and all through life. And some of you live in far more
rough and tumble places, which is not tough to do compared to my
sequestered foothill here in the woods. You watch and grimace and then
write and then strain to accept the unacceptable in human behavior; in
human parenting; in bored human dog-pack mentality.
Oh, when I
was younger, walking the small safe streets of our nearby small city
with my preteens, I would come upon groups of teens - or young adults,
swearing with abandon. I would sidle up to them, grab their sleeve or
collar, smile into their faces like a mother does, and say "You really
don't' want to talk like that where young people, or older people who
aren't used to that language, have to hear you. You know what I mean?"
And always, they would look at me and get the caring. They would
register the motherness. They would smile, maybe because its only a
small safe little city, and they have not seen the worst of it; and they
would be embarrassed. I would give them a shoulder shove, just a nice
motherly one, and smile. Say " You have a nice day." And they would
laugh, and jostle each other, having been mothered out on the streets,
unexpectedly.
Sometimes I wonder if that's what we need. The
roving parents. The meandering Caring Ones. Who in a perfect story don't
project or assume what someone is doing or what is right or wrong, but
just go and smooth some caringness over them. Just reminding them that
somewhere, somehow, that stuff is here in this life.
