Field Notes: Summer 2023

First walk after time away

A few yards into the woods, Red-eyed Vireo sings.

Hearing the newly familiar whistled phrases, I feel my shoulders drop.

I am home.

After the flooding

How do I write about the plants flattened in the direction of the water flow, the grasses now covered with sandy soil, the tree trunks and “debris” built up in the riverbend?

How do I reconcile the brown, fast-moving water with the gentler, clear currents in which Cora, Asha and I played less than a week ago?

How do I grieve the land washed away by a river swollen with rain?

How do I hold the new shape, the new curves, of the river?

How do I resist the urge to turn away and instead face the damage, my grief, my despair, possibly, my rage.

How, in the midst of this, do I acknowledge the gift of seeing a family of ducks floating swiftly downstream?

Balsam

A familiar scent greets us at the top of a slow climb up a path of rocks, tree roots and puddles.

Breathing it in, I am grounded in this place.

Were I anywhere else, this woodsy pungency would carry me to this mountain range.

Hiking with Dad.

Hearing quiet

The woods have settled into their late-summer beauty.

The mosquitoes, normally so distractingly loud, seem to have taken the morning off.

What I do hear is the absence of bird sounds. Even Eastern Wood-Pewee’s slurred pee-a-weeeee is missing.

A leaf floating to the trail invites an exhale.

And I notice how, in the quiet, I settle into myself.

Misshapen assumptions

Standing at a trail intersection while Asha decides whether we’re turning left or continuing straight, I use the opportunity to look around at the plants.

What I think are pinnately compound leaves catch my attention. A Black Locust shrub is my first thought, but as I step closer, I see this plant is actually a fern.

Examining the oblong subleaflets arranged spaciously along a blade, I’m drawn to the mittenlike one at the tip. I’m tempted to assume it’s misshapen, to call it an imperfection. Until I notice that they are this way on all the blades.

“You know, Asha,” I say, “this is probably exactly how they’re designed to grow.”

Then it occurs to me that I might not be talking only about the fern.