It’s not that I can get lost in the woods. I’ve been walking them for years, they are very bounded and I know them well.
It’s more that I can get lost within the woods.
I go places I haven’t been before, step on ground that has never felt my boots. I get turned around, lose my sense of direction, especially since it’s overcast and I can’t see the sun. I look around me and don’t know exactly where I am.
I wander until I see something familiar, which eventually, I know I will.
The Wolf Pine with a Yoni big enough to sit in
A pile of rocks made by a farmer two hundred years ago while clearing the field
A pond surrounded by trees, now thick black mud,
but the same pond that is deep enough for the dogs to swim in, in the spring
and freezes over in the winter.
The fallen tree becoming earth, dressed in a ruffle of turkey tail mushrooms or the one, closer to the farm, that drips amber icicles when it snows
I wander walking away the pain and fear that live inside of me.
As I walk, I feel them drop from my heart down into my bowels.
I dig a hole, with a stick,
through the leaves,
into the wet earth
and squat.
I cover the hole and I walk away
leaving a part of myself behind
for the bacteria and bugs to work over
Making it, at last, into something useful.
Maria, you turned taking a shit in the woods into poetry-prose. You can turn anything into art!
Lois, you made me laugh, I wasn’t sure about that one, but well it was the truth and there it was. I’ll think of what you said the next time I get stuck on a quilt when I’m in my studio. :)
Maria, I related more than you know. Out birding with my sister in a field in the middle of nowhere when an intestinal issue flared. I sat on the edge of a log——and then fell backwards. Not a good ending.
Birding over for the day! Any bad scenario you can imagine is probably accurate.
Oh no Lois, definitely not funny when it happens but a bit slapstick to hear about. I had a feeling you’d been there Lois, with all the time you spent in the woods.