My Head, the Forest

An ear to the canopy, I followed my dog Silas who is also my sensei of joy and dirt. Although his panting and snout-guided trampling through the snow-powdered forest prevented me from hearing anything besides the nearby babbling brook, I eventually heard the high, distant pitch of a Black-capped chickadee call. I imagined its small feet on the high, snowy boughs as I navigated a coniferous section near Tubb Run. Following Silas’ lead, a tree’s gorgeous bark stopped me in my tracks.

The large plates of bark separated by gaps were reminiscent of an aerial map. I felt as if above a war zone or a drought or a mountain range of soft, yet rough, topography. I placed my hand on the bark and nothing moved or crumbled into dust against my finger pads. In that moment, I didn’t care to figure out the tree. In hindsight, all I can say is that it has stood there for a while, being beautiful without knowing or caring so, and without you thinking about it there at your dinner table or at your work desk or in the passenger’s seat.

And it’s still there right now, its roots steady in soft, acidic soil. Regardless of weathering or gaze. No ego.

Several days ago, I was talking with a colleague about panic, both of us diagnosed with panic disorder. Both of us also have synesthesia. We leaned into one another, talking about how difficult driving a vehicle can be. I had never met someone else who experienced the same thing that I do when it comes to driving. I shared with them the hallucinations I had experienced. The out-of-body, out-of-control feeling as if my body was lifting up into the sky without wings. The tightening of the muscles. The tunneling of the vision. The pausing of breath as if breathing was no longer autonomic. The possibility of blacking out, even when stopped at a traffic light. The absolute disgust of possessing a mind so contrary to what I want it to do. Sarah is not afraid of driving. Sarah drives all the time and often by herself. Sarah drives to new-to-her and far-away places all the time.

The tree standing in acidic soil with its big, beautiful plates of bark. The hollowed-out earth star mushroom I held in my hand the other week and placed back down into the forest litter. The tree limb that hangs over the road up on Wopsy Mountain that has been hanging like that for all the years I’ve driven past it. The half-alive apple tree in my yard, donning its glorious jacket of lichen. The Little Juniata River that slithers down in the valley, close to my home, so many little feet and gills dipping and shimmying inside it. Silas’ sleepy eyes and all the debris that collects in the frizz of his tail. All these seemingly-permanent things ground me in this wavering, impermanent life-story I’m navigating. At the end of the day and at the end of my life, all I want is to walk around inside my life and be grateful and amazed. I live such a privileged but simple life. But that is another story for another time.

The other day, I was out to breakfast with my parents and husband, trapped in the corner of a booth with a plate of not-so-great breakfast bar food. My parents went on to tell my husband how proud they were of him and his job. I am also proud of him. My dad then looked at me and said that I should really write a book—something that my parents often push. You can make some money he said, in a sing-song voice, rubbing his fingers together. My heart broke. I had to chug iced chai and stuff toast into my mouth to keep from crying. We were at my mother’s place of employment, so I was barraged by one coworker after another making niceties as all the birds inside my body were screeched and scattered all at once off the limbs that are my bones. All the words I could muster in response to my father was that I do write and I don’t do it for money.

It wasn’t so much that they want to see their daughter’s talent utilized that upset me, but more so the reasons behind it. More so the fact that there I was, happiest I’ve been in my life after many years struggling with depression. Here I am, paying my bills, guided by my curiosity, not job-ambitious, living a life I love that is guided by my passions. I am a good person. I help people. I like who I am. That same night, I was able to break down into my husband’s arms like a compost heap in our kitchen. He told me that he was proud of me and all the frenzied birds inside my body found their branches and lowered their wings.

Another life ago, I was a college instructor and my parents were so proud, always bragging about it. Meanwhile, I had no insurance or benefits and I was barely able to pay bills. I had to supplement my income with other odd jobs. I had a huge sleep deficit. I had an ongoing infection that traveled through my body like a black, oily, dense Starling murmuration. I couldn’t afford to take care of it. My mental health was not well. But my parents were proud. This is not to say that they do or did not care. But sometimes the distance between us is like plates of bark, divided by deep, dark rivulets. We’re on opposite sides of the tree.

But you see, this is what is happening. Not just with my parents, but with most everyone. I feel like I’m falling away from my abilities to relate. Small talk makes my brain travel to the forest. When my colleagues talk about their kids or makeup or what’s on sale and where, my brain sits at a river’s edge. When people complain about things that in the grand-scheme are trivial, my brain perches on a bough in a boreal forest. Soothing-to-me words come into my mind. Taiga. Riparian. Stratigraphy. Psithurism. Bolete. Monotropa uniflora. They’re like spells that bring me back into my earthen self. I feel as if I am a bird, my ear to the ground, trying to hear and understand those weird-ass humans.

While I’m not opposed to my mind working this way, I also fear it. I’ve recently come to realize that the majority of my life has been fearing my ego. This has nothing to do with confidence and more to do with display. The hikes I do are not about how I hauled my ass up a mountain, but about the mountain and its ecosystem. This thing I made with my hands isn’t a celebration of my talent but about the art of how it was made. Having run three ultra-marathons in my twenties wasn’t about how fit I was, but the amazement of what a body and mind are capable of doing despite spasming muscles, intense heat, and briars. I have always backed away from my ego. Hence I don’t try to accomplish much. Heck, in my darker mental unwellness days, I’ve nearly cried when being acknowledged by cashiers. When I enter a room, I stay along the edge. If I were a bird, I would not be of paradise, but dark-eyed and small like a junco. Junko in the trunko.

A new-to-me poet by the name of Grace Olscamp captured my sentiments pretty well.

who knows, we grow

I’m not sure of my purpose

but I’m also not sure of

the purpose of moss.

I doubt the moss even knows

its purpose

but still it grows

so that will have to do

for now.

I’ll be like moss

and grow.

The tree in its soft, acidic ground. The hawk on the telephone pole along the busy-human highway. The gorgeous, fruiting body of a slime mold in a dark place you’ll never see unless you go and look for it. The walnut breaking down into its citrus-smelling dark self. The sap traveling down into the tree’s roots. Those roots, expanding and hiding their beauty. What is the opposite of sonder, a word that captures the essence of every human’s narrative? What is the word that captures the essence of nature’s narrative? When will I be standing like the tree, beautiful and useful, without knowing or caring so in my own liminal space? Here I am, becoming less like them and more like that.