To the Woods!

 

Rambling

“Through these woods I have walked thousands of times. For many years I felt more at home here than anywhere else, including our own house. Stepping out into the world, into the grass, onto the path was always a kind of relief. I was not escaping anything. I was returning to the arena of delight.”

Mary Oliver (Upstream, p.151; Penguin Press, NY. 2016)

          Mary Oliver’s poems and prose bypass my brain and speak directly to my soul. Her experiences in nature reflect my childhood and young adulthood almost exactly. Growing up, we lived in a small house—a very small house, with only one bathroom and three shared bedrooms. There was no personal space, no privacy, and the TV was always on. As an introverted child, I craved quiet and solitude—still do. So, my feet took me to the woods, as did Mary Oliver’s.

          In those days, in small mountain towns, people did not worry about children being unsupervised outside. There were no helicopter parents, no nannies fussing about, no playdates, and no scheduled summer activities. We were free to wander so long as we came home for meals. My sister, Jerrie, stuck like glue at home with Mother and Missy, while I gambled through the woods or rode my bicycle all over town. One of my favorite haunts was a creek bottom down a steep wooded gorge. I left my bike at the top and, holding onto saplings and vines for support, climbed down. Many summer days were spent there, exploring and moving rocks to create pools for wading. I came home muddy, soaked, and blissful.

          Mary Oliver tells a story in Upstream about finding three fish freshly washed up on the beach. She took them home and cleaned them, going into great detail about the frilly lungs and many shades of pink of the insides. I remembered watching my daddy clean his catch in the kitchen sink, showing me each part and explaining its purpose—the lacy gills, the swim bladder, the large liver—how the scales had to be scraped off against the grain, from tail to head, and the fins removed because they were sharp enough to cut your hands. Roe was always a bonus.

          Mary Oliver rambled the woods and beaches because it informed her poetry and soothed her soul. I rambled because it was my safe place, my sanctuary. When I think about it now, I realize that the earth was always home to me. With summer coming, I hope to do a bit of rambling again—old-lady rambling, for sure, but just being under the canopy of pines and hardwoods, in the cathedral of birdsong will be soulful enough for me. I wonder if you are a rambler, too.

                                                  In the Spirit,

                                                  Jane