Field Notes: Summer 2024
Seen but not seen
After days of thunderstorms and thick air, I stand on a low wooden bridge under a blue sky, wanting to sketch.
Broadleaf Cattails catch my attention.
I notice that some stalks are crowned with a narrow brown spire attached to a chunkier green cylinder below.
And then an uncomfortable realization reveals itself …
Although I’ve watched cattails spread in the pond after the beavers moved out and I’ve found caddisfly larvae among their stalks in the water …
Although I’ve greeted Red-winged Blackbirds perched atop their winter columns and I’ve winced when our yellow lab grabbed mouthfuls of their flowerhead fluff …
Not once have I considered their summer form or how their downy seeds develop.
Not once have I leaned into their quiet magnificence with attentive curiosity.
I apologize to these wetland beauties for not having paid closer attention to them over the years.
And I leave the bridge, humbled.
Signs along the trail
Dad, my stepmother and I stand at an unfamiliar three-way intersection with a post that has only two wooden signs. One says “Foot Trail” with an arrow pointing in the direction from which we’ve come. The other says “W.A. White Trail to St. Huberts” with an arrow pointing down the hill to our right. There is no sign for the uphill path to our left.
We start down the hill to St. Huberts and see another sign nailed to a tree:
NOT THE
TRAIL
We discuss this contradictory information and decide to turn around and retrace our steps.
Yet I continued to ponder this sign and its all-caps clarity – and wisdom:
How often in my desire for a sign that says “Go This Way” have I missed the sign that says “Not the Trail”?
With these quiet noticings
Asha arrives at our lingering spot first and sits down. I settle in beside her and take some deep breaths, the early September sun on my face.
My breathing slows and deepens as I take in the view of these hills. The deciduous trees are showing hints of yellow.
After several minutes I shift my focus to closer in.
A hairy white-with-black-spots caterpillar crawls surprisingly quickly across the moss, leaves and rocks.
A bee buzzes from White Goldenrod to White Goldenrod, taking nectar from several small flowers on each stem.
Shadows move across us as five Turkey Vultures fly overhead and land in nearby trees. They perch, spread their wings wide, preen and then take flight over the gulch.
With these quiet noticings, I root into this community of beings, into this land, into myself.
You may also like:
Spring 2024 – Small noticing, big impact; Scene: Woods in the Northeast; Momentum; Postcard to the Woods #3; The week of smittenness; Befitting of an adult?
Winter 2023/2024 – When the temperature drops; December full moon; Untitled snow note; Letting it be easier; A short exchange at the edge of the woods; How had I forgotten?
Fall 2023 – They’re back!; Walking on asphalt: Postcard to the woods #2; River of prayers; How to get to know a red berry in 8 simple steps
Summer 2023 – First walk after time away; After the flooding; Balsam; Hearing quiet; Misshapen assumptions
