Written August 2020
On a year in the woods.
I came to the Adirondacks one year ago. I have lived here for ten non-consecutive months since. In that time my life has changed in wonderful, joyous and unexpected ways. Here at the end of it I am mostly sick, tired and sore and nursing an infected foot scrape; however, as I am often now writing, I have bloomed from the depressive person I was two years ago. I have never felt more grateful, more like myself, more womanly, more confident, more strong, more loved and in love. Out of that abundance of love I want to share some stuff. Go outside. Go outside. Go outside. Walk, read, sleep in the grass; bike, hike, kayak if you have the opportunity. Study the wildflowers in your yard or the trees on your street. Know that everything around you is a gift. Every new leaf a tree pushes out from year to year is a remarkable feat of perseverance against the ice, wind, fungus, deer, bugs and sun. Every beetle that crawls onto your leg or caterpillar that hitches to your shoulder has chosen you for a part in its small, wonderful life. Every songbird at your bird feeder or nesting in your spruce has chosen your backyard as its safe harbor. I like to visit frogs the most for this reason. Remember that frogs are little slimy creatures who spend most of their time sleeping in the muck or floating up to their eyeballs in swamps. To see them bask in the sun or hop to your foot is a courtesy they extend to you. You do not get to demand it of them. This beauty goes doubly so if you can share these things with someone, as I have ever since a special person asked me to be a partner in their life.
On that hike, the forced thought of each of my steps in snow and the warm glow of exertion under winter layers brought a presence better felt than explained. You are nowhere else but standing on your legs. You are nothing else but alive, a traveling, physical being.
In my small time I have seen many such things. I have seen balsam fir grow cones covered in pitch in a headstrong attempt to grow on the rocky sides of a summit peak. I have seen the American chestnut alive again on the side of the road in the middle of the woods. I have watched two eagles chase each other over an untouched lake and studied a heron fishing off the rocky beach. I have mapped white pines older than most of the people on earth. I have fallen asleep to loon songs and bullfrog calls more times than I could tell you. I have watched mink bound their way across a bog. I have held a particularly docile snapping turtle. I have seen a mother turkey herd her babies into tall grass. I have watched a monarch caterpillar cocoon itself in less than an hour. I followed DEC radio telemetry technicians through the woods all to spy on a threatened wild hen eating spruce needles. I have sat in a lean-to and watched a thunderstorm roll over the lake and hills and wash our campfire. I have watched an otter bask on river ice. A French Canadian man once helped me up a five foot ledge. I once saw a beaver walk down the street by Frontier Field. I got stung on the butt by bees. And I have photographed so, so many toads. Edward Abbey wrote that the best place way to be outdoors was to walk for so many miles that you end up crawling, bruised and bloody, on your hands and knees - then, he says, you might start to see something. He was a bit dramatic. I think, as Mary Oliver did, that you do not have to be good. I have not seen much of the world; I have not even seen a lot of the Adirondacks. But I know that I have gained a lot from my small time. In February climbed a mountain in fog so thick visibility wasn’t more than a hundred feet. There was nothing to see from the top. I did it because life is about revelation, not destination. On that hike, the forced thought of each of my steps in snow and the warm glow of exertion under winter layers brought a presence better felt than explained. You are nowhere else but standing on your legs. You are nothing else but alive, a traveling, physical being. This summer I woke up at 3:20 a.m., on a Saturday, to hike and see a mountain sunrise two hours later. One questions a lot stumbling over rocks exhausted and hungry in the dark, but the sublime euphoria of the sun emerging as the spruces and bare mountain top do make up for it. On the mountain, the sun said thus: You are lucky. This is the world you fools ought to make. One of free agency and discovery, of clean air and sore legs and open hearts but warm beds and full breakfasts at home below. This ought not be a passing vacation, she says, and this ought not be the domain of those with the ability to pay, as it as been for centuries. We are all climbing the mountain. We are all looking for that peace of mind and agency of spirit. But we are not all able to reach the top, tied down as we are in the artificial muck of eviction court and unemployment lines and policemen kneeling on some of our necks. You, who are wondrously and miraculously alive, simply ought to let the world accept you in its systems and spirals, and know that you are one member in a great network of beautifully real things. You do not have to be good. You do not have to be all in all things. Be quiet, be courteous, be observant and be kind. What you find may teach you something wonderful.