Postcard Challenge #6: Into the Woods

There are days when an itinerary is extremely helpful. Like days when you end up wrestling a fourteen-month-old over a camera and begging her to let mommy take just one Valentine's day picture with mommy's Pinterest-inspired banner in the background like it really matters. Fresh air is extremely helpful in these situations, too.

Enter our challenge for today:

I knew when I got this postcard that I'd head to the Arboretum, one of our favorite places, even if the bank thermometer read 27. We had snowpants and boots. Elisa's half-Michigander. It was worth it.

First on the list was spending ten minutes looking at the sky and noticing what we saw. For the record, I tried as valiantly as someone wearing heavy boots with a baby strapped to her chest could try. I'm not sure we made it all the way to ten, but it was soul-food. I couldn't remember the last time I had looked up. 

The sky was icy blue with thin strips of clouds being pulled across it like... like...As I struggled to find a word that reminded me of what I was seeing (cotton candy? scarf? cheesecloth?), I realized how often lately I jump to reflecting or making meaning. I very rarely just observe. Just enjoy. Just watch without comment. 

It reminded me of a poem from one of my favorite volumes of poetry, At the Pool We've All Got Bodies, also a gift from Kathleen (See? Don't you want to be her friend, too?). 

"...your new poet voice, which sits somewhere

in the bleachers of your brain, 

sees what you see

and tries to commandeer the events of your life into a poem, 

even as you are living them...

Occasionally it's nice just to wash your hands, 

to lather and rinse unpoetically, 

to stay in the water from time to time."

                 -From"Now that I'm a Poet," Lance Odegard

I tried to stay in the water this time and found the clouds were lovely. And that only when I was standing still did I really sense how fast they were moving. Not sure what that all means. I'll leave it up to someone else for a change! 

Next up was documenting ourselves standing under a tree. Because I wanted Elisa to get to see it and because I wanted extra points for wit, we stopped at the mammoth uprooted tree that JMU has left where it fell so that kids can explore it and see how huge trees are when seen from another perspective. 

It was like the barricade from Les Miserables, a tangle of carvings so smooth they seemed polished. We made another valiant effort to hop up on to the trunk but if you were paying attention above, you'll remember the baby strapped to the chest and why we moved on. 

On our way to the swinging bridge we stopped to look at the rings on a freshly cut trunk. 

Now, there's definitely a poem in here somewhere. It was like looking at the loss of a twin or a spouse or a friend closer than a brother. What must it be like for the trunk that remains? 

I knew I had found the place to "arrange something I find into a circle." 

The rhododendron leaves felt very noble, Greek maybe and tragic; it felt right, like leaving flowers at a graveside. 

Only two more items to go. "List the number of people you see." 16. Most were college students on their way to class, though. There was only one other walker like us, two more students who stayed measuring trees with a clipboard. Even the ducks were gone today (though Elisa liked quacking at the birds she heard anyway). 

Last item on the list. "Leave something of yours in a secret location." Now, I know this location isn't really secret, but I thought it would capture Kathleen's fancy. It always has mine. 

At the "Poet-tree," a little placard tells you to "leave a poem, take a poem." So we did. 

I left my poem about aspens and drew out a crispy, water-stained paper. It had a haiku about winter squirrels that isn't really appropriate for me to post here but nevertheless made me chuckle, and a poem about a weeping willow who "wants love but all she can do is look down from above."

I was tempted to "forget" it on the bench after I photographed it, pretend I hadn't pulled it from the basket, let it be exposed to the elements. To be honest, it wasn't a very good poem, not even really pathetic enough to draw sadness. But something stopped me. 

I realized I often do this with other people's words, sometimes other people's lives. If they're not eloquent enough, convincingly packaged, or beautifully presented, I discard them. In arrogance, I leave those I deem "less" exposed and forgotten, dismissing and distancing myself instead. I held onto the paper, another's words she thought worthy enough to leave for someone else to receive. It seems like all we really can do, really. 

In the end, I felt like the words we found near the footbridge were true: 

We finished our adventure on a bench near the bird feeders, watching the nuthatches hop upside down and busy, the tufted titmouse flash and pop like powder, and I was reminded of another poem by Wendell Berry, another poet I love: 

Wendell Berry "The Peace of Wild Things" from Schumann Media Center, Inc. on Vimeo.

Thanks, Kathleen, for another invitation to "rest in the grace of the world" and be free.