The Table

Throughout winter, my father likes to consistently remind me—as if it is newfound wisdom—that robins do not always migrate in the winter, but head in large flocks to the forest. I have taken to just nodding my head because telling him yes, I’m aware has not sunk in from the dozen times before. I look down at my hands, thinking about the robins and juncos that I witness high in the canopies when I’m walking up on the hoar-frosted mountain. I wring my hands together, wondering if I’m memorable—if I contribute anything at all to the table—as my father goes on to tell me about the robins in the forest. I want to share more with him, about what I am learning about local geology, the flora and fauna of my curiosities, but I struggle with his distant stare and his words that intercept mine. I know he is deep in the conch of his own thoughts and hearing only the sea of his own words. This is how his mind has always worked and despite this modern age of labels or diagnoses, it is his reality. It is a reality, I am realizing, that has contributed to my introversion and silence.

Pineapple weed again, I sigh while on my haunches, as I start my stroll through wetlands where my footprints and desire paths meander. I stroke their yellow heads and lacy leaves as they do their work in the bar of sand. Nothing new to report here. They have been here all this mild winter. In my other life of pulling food from the stove, giving dogs supplements, getting paid to talk to sad strangers, crocheting blankets, and laughing with my husband, their yellow heads continue to exist in that liminal space of resting their heads on the cold ground, day after day. I continue my walk into the wetlands, noting the game trails, fallen trees, and the scattering of walnuts. The river, never the same, is chocolate sometimes, then black in the evening gloam. It swells and recedes like breath. I see the same wands—fallen branches ornate with creamy-colored lichens and mesmerizing fungi. I hold them up in wonder, as if I did not hold them up in wonder many times before. I continue on to large trees perched on the riverbank, roots exposed. I imagine the river’s slithering eventually downing the trees and rubbing up against the road on the other side. Again, I continue, my curiosity and imagination engaged. I don’t always know the names of things. I am not always aware of the symbiosis between one thing and another. The river will someday breach the road. The trees will someday fall into the river, rendering the tree as a catch-all for river detritus. Eventually, I go home to my creaturely comforts. Books, hobbies for my brain and hands, slap-happy dogs, and a sweet husband who encourages the dust inside me to take shape. When I get home, I wonder what my wanderings and curiosity contribute.

Nothing.

I walk in the footsteps of dead poets and romantics. I walk in the footsteps of existentialists and stoics. I walk in the footsteps of my husband who needs to repeatedly explain to me what dew point is and conjures in me an even deeper passion for clouds. I walk in the footsteps of long, lean Frank whose mind blooms with wildflowers and whose hands angle jewel-like fish into his large hands. I walk in the footsteps of my neighbor who carved for us a wooden spoon, entrusted me with a bag of wool he taught me to card and spin, and inspired me to finally make natural dyes. I walk in the footsteps of Dave, the Poet on the Mountain, who weaves words from the threads of his walks in the woods. I walk in the footsteps of Mary who lived simply and always in grace. I walk in the footsteps of Steve who reads rocks like they’re poems. I walk in the footsteps of artists who turn lines and pigment and water into images that thrill me. I join groups of fascinating folks, always introducing myself as a fool who brings only enthusiasm and curiosity to the table. Among all of them, I feel like a child tugging at their hem. What kind of rock is this? Look at this flower. Is that a crow or a fish crow?  

Sometimes, like right now, I am melancholic in a landscape of embarrassment and empty hands bringing nothing to the table but rocks, a coat covered in burrs, silly writings, and a camera full of bird silhouettes. A thorn has been lodged in the pad of my finger for a week and if it wants to stay, that is fine by me. Things work themselves out. But this is how I will continue; approaching everything in amazement, like a baby realizing its hand for the first time. I will fly down from my high roost up on the hoar-frosted mountain and sit with them, listen to them, learn from them, make a nest in them, over and over and over before I fly back up, over the mountain.