​“Coalescing”  mixed media/panel, 12” x 12”

Despite the climate-changed warmth, we’re still in the dormant season of short days, low light, and long nights. For me it prompts reflection, nudging consideration about big questions. I’m not inclined to have solid answers; mostly I’m trying to listen. This introspective time feels extra dense as six people I loved and cared about died within the last six months. That’s not a pity-seeking claim, just a truism. Others have harder ongoing challenges; but it’s affected me, for sure. 

The inevitable yet strangely unfamiliar process of grieving rends one’s heart open. When it happens several times in a row it leaves little time for it to close back up. I’ve noticed that in this more porous state, though not always in an unselfish way, I feel more sensitized to others’ pain.

When loved one’s die, it’s an unasked-for opportunity to review our relationships with them. A bittersweet yet beautiful reality is how the “loss” we feel offers the chance to question the notion of our separation, and whether we were ever really separate beings. Which in turn may bind us more intimately to those still breathing.  

I’m trying to give this cycle its due, but not by clinging to past pain. This year of transitions has brought an undeniable awareness of the precious wonder of life. It’s heightened the importance of how I interact with folks (and I hope, how I navigate the world). I feel more conscious of my relationships, and my behavior, and the affect we all have on one another. 

I’m trying to genuinely listen more deeply. I’ve learned by error that even when not offering “answers”, how I ask questions can be insensitive or come off as arrogance. From witnessing my own erratic days during grief, I understand better how we never know what loads another may be carrying, and better appreciate how these may affect their interactions with us. Encounters with Death have a way of exposing us, revealing our habits. They also push us to not take anything for granted.

Rather than stitch my heart together, I’m aiming to leave it more open. A risky idea. Especially in this digitized world that divides and bombards us with input. It’s a challenge to discern what is worth digesting out of what we’re exposed to. We’re overwhelmed by info, and linear-thinking is the foundation on which our culture is built. So our world is defined as a mechanical process, and based upon the conveniences and “successes” technologies have granted, everything is made to fit an unquestioned scientific paradigm of things and materialism. Our society prioritizes speed and efficiency—time is money—with little concern for the trade-offs.

Yet lately, I just want to slow down and sit with some of this mystery within living and dying. I want to cultivate safe spaces (for me & others) to be still, and maybe even be comfortable accepting we don’t have answers or “solutions.”  Rather than looking to “solve” all that’s discomforting, I’m trying to embrace all my emotions, even as I recognize they’re ephemeral, and will always come and go. Kinda like our days in these bodies.

Contrary to the media norms, I want to highlight our commonalities rather than differences. Without denying life’s challenges, I want to focus on sharing joy. The quality of life is directly related to how we relate with others, and how we navigate the environment we’re in. Lately I’m trying to remember to take the extra seconds to talk to the cashiers, really see the service people, and ask unseen human voices on the phone how their day is going (before they’re all replaced by machines). I’m working to be less absent-minded and more present while doing daily routines, even the essentially mindless ones. 

When we categorize and label the world (plants, animals, people, cultures) “they” become something apart from us. In varied ways it’s been said really experiencing and “being” in the world is forgetting the name of the things we see. I’m trying to pause long enough to hear the birdsongs, notice the leaves waving, and feel the breezes without giving thought to what species it is or the next day’s forecast. 

Ultimately the path seems all about how we interpret and attend to this sense of “self.” I’m evermore rooted in the notion that my being (this thing we all call “I”) is not defined by, nor limited to, my experiences, thoughts, or feelings. I instinctively feel we’re all far more expansive and interwoven.

For a long while I’ve struggled to articulate this felt sense of our interconnectedness with each other and our world. This has been heightened the last couple years. I loathed our societal response to the pandemic, especially the notion that distancing from each other, and the wishful promotion of technological control, is the primary path toward us being healthy. A lot of our response seems subtly intertwined with our cultural phobia of death. Death is very real, but I question the trade-off inherent in promoting behaviors that are mostly further disconnecting. Rather than physically distancing from others during times of crisis, I want more intimacy and physical contact. Especially during our moments of hardship, suffering, and when we pass from this life. It strikes me that living in a culture that promotes the opposite reveals a pretty insecure and unwell society. 
 
This was a year for me to get acquainted with, and indeed, befriend this taboo yet ubiquitous thing death. In turn I’ve grown increasingly weary of our emphasis on the idea we’re independent, separate beings. I’m tired of participating in a culture that highlights and is anchored by what I see as an essential falsehood. 

I enjoy the conveniences of our modern world but can’t accept the “solution” to everything is simply seeking more control through more technology—often without consideration for what is lost in the barter. More understanding, acceptance, and wisdom seems better. I don’t want fear-mongering to drive the social aims of the culture I am in. Maybe we ought not be defined by and constrained within a materialist view of the universe — built upon illusions that give us a false sense of control. I feel there’s a wisdom and understanding that transcends words and numbers. 

Ironically the insecurities that drive our economy and steer our society seem to me the root of all our suffering. I don’t have answers. But I’d rather humbly walk toward a more holistic compassionate recognition of our shared being, our intimate bonds with each other and all life. I’m unsure where all this porous pondering is leading me, but it seems articulating what isn’t working, and what feels true and real, is a step toward recovering and unveiling peace. Hopefully this aids me in being able to better cultivate and share it. Where I’m headed may not be clear, but amid the uncertainty I can feel a coalescing. 
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Finding My Self, Back in School (Yet Again), 24” x 24” mixed media/panel

For me, painting is a form of journaling. It’s sorting life out. It’s playing. It’s exploring, discovering. And because it leaves a material trace of the decisions, a physical path, each painting becomes a sort of record. In essence it documents a journey. Silence can be more potent than words. Colors and textures and line can convey things directly, in ways narrative imagery can not. 

Like the way our lives unfold, sometimes a painting moves in a steady flow. Other times the way is staggered; we take a few steps forward and then fall back. Or other things require our attention. Despite our fervent intentions, old habits may bedevil us, and can fill us with feelings of disappointment, embarrassment, or regret.  Endlessly in school. But in my paintings and life, there’s a glimmer of hope in the awareness and acceptance of my imperfect, switchback route.

This piece is a sort of quiet tapestry. It felt complete enough months ago that I shared it in a show. I was delighted some dear friends purchased it. Unwished for circumstances have delayed getting it to them. During this time the personal challenges of letting go, over and over, had me despondent and adrift. I was not pulled to paint.

So it sat, in plain view, as my soul reeled and rested, a conspicuous mute witness. All the while I kept looking at this piece, thinking and not thinking. When first made it was a spontaneous effort, direct and honest, like a burst of emotions we may share in conversation. In retrospect it lacked a coherent wholeness. It’s appealing fresh impetuosity revealed a lack of patience. I sensed a failure to “listen.”  I recognized all this, but felt stuck, fearful about attempting to alter it. 

Finally, this week, for the first time in nearly two months, I found the courage to attend to what for so long didn’t feel right. Trusting that my friends who’d made the purchase would encourage me to follow my gut, I tentatively took some gentle steps, made some temporary intuited adjustments — and all at once it felt more “right”, more spacious and harmonious. And so this imperfect painting will soon be delivered to its new owners’ home. 

We all need to honor our limits and our need to recharge. But also, no matter how hard we try, we’ll never create our best self solely by plotting the future, or dwelling in the past. We’ve all accumulated missteps; our task is to build on them. When I come into acceptance, show up in the school of now; my authentic unseparated self appears, and I can share in the dance of living. 

www.johnwiercioch.com

It soothes me to partake in energy from the non-human world. It feels best to do this in silence; how else can one hear the field sparrows, glimpse the trout breeching the river’s surface, or catch the crickets’ song? Very occasionally I’ve come across folks who are comfortable sharing quiet with me.  A bond instantly forms when I sense someone is able to be at ease in this. Being with my son immediately comes to mind. Somehow just being and wordlessly experiencing with another, for me, makes the sharing more potent. It feels a great and precious gift. 

And rare. We don’t nurture it in our culture. We declare people should “be direct!” —but the abstraction of words demands a point of view, and suggests separate interpretations, and so clouds Being. Sensing presence requires not thinking, or “communicating,” or even responding, rather it silently invites an open communion of feeling. In this way it softly reveals our unspoken bonds. 

So these days, I often absorb and recharge while wandering on my own. I also mostly work alone. Which means I spend a great deal of my life in quiet. I don’t think I’m a misanthrope; I can engage with most folks, and truly enjoy hearty conversation. I’m a decent listener, can even be chatty, and often learn from dialogue with others. Generally I measure as between introvert and extrovert on the scales. But applying the standard extrovert/introvert rubric “do you recharge through being with people or being alone” clearly qualifies me as a version of the latter. 

Lately I feel critical of and less attracted to social media. Maybe because I’ve suddenly lost some friends and loved ones — real losses, not social media “unfriendings” — but hard-to-bear, heart-challenging adjustments of minimized calls, correspondence, or contact; in some cases, that severest of transitions, death. I suspect grieving all such losses makes one reconsider what’s real and genuine. 

Yet I also seem to have a need (or strong desire) to share what brings me joy. And hypocritically I end up sharing on social media! Is this now our only avenue of exchange, or simply the most convenient one? Or is it the way that gives us a dopamine rush most instantaneously and efficiently? 

But beyond the means, I wonder, what drives my desire to share? Is it an introvert’s safe way to balance an inner insecurity, a need to be seen or heard in my social circle, without actually showing up to a meeting in a circle? If we were having more genuine exchanges, if we really were sharing and felt heard, would we still be so desperate to abstractly post about living? I wonder, if I was sharing wordless experiences with others, would I still feel the need to use words to articulate or express the experience here or elsewhere?… 

Or is sharing in any form, about minor concerns, huge worries, great celebrations, or small joys simply intrinsic to being an engaged vital human? In lieu of physical contact, maybe it’s a healthy lifeline that sustains our connections until we are pulled from the seas of isolation—when we recover our footing enough to wordlessly share our stories, be truly touched by offering our direct physical presence to another. 

Often I’m at peace sharing my presence solely with the non-human world. I can savor the exchange while wandering woods or sitting on my haunches at the edge of a river. This evening I enjoyed the crisp autumn air, slowly chirping crickets, the waving golden grasses, shimmering jade ripples, watched the sky itself transition from azure to rosy crimson. But having recently not been given an option about letting go of a few loved ones (with each of whom I could effortlessly share silence), I recognized I’m not a fully realized hermit, not quite yet. 

Nonetheless even as I ached about not sharing the rich and beautiful communion of evening with each of those now distanced, inexplicably, I believe we did.

When I float on the river in the early morning, the rising sun lays golden streaks across the river’s surface. At certain angles there appears to be pixie dust in the air over these glowing patches. On closer inspection, I’ve noticed the little sparkles are not being blown through the scene, but staying within the sunlit spaces. 

Like tiny winged acrobats, their unmeasurable flight patterns consistently swirl inward to keep them within the slow-moving vector of light. In concert with the aerial display, on the glistening surface of the river, I can often see faint streaks — momentary wakes tracking the course of miniature multi-legged, self-propelled water skiers and boatmen. Amazingly they defy the ongoing flow of the current and manage to keep within the slowly shifting pattern of golden triangles as well. Apparently also drawn to the warmth of the newly arriving dawn. 

I recently learned that there are over 3,000 types of mayflies, and scientists think a majority across the globe, like so many other animals, are in great decline. Unlike the popular monarch butterfly, only biologists and fly fishermen seem aware of the crisis. The young nymphs live underwater, essential cogs in the gears of life (what isn’t a cog or essential?), feasting on decaying leaves, algae, and all sorts of microscopic foods. They may live below the surface as long as a couple years. Since they are a good indicator of clean, unpolluted, oxygenated fresh water (upon which many ecosystems rely) their decline is a silent alarm. As they mature into flies, in the wondrous wheel of life, they become a favored food for many other animals. They live a very brief life on the wing — usually a few days or less; some species less than an hour, one is estimated at five minutes! They emerge from freshwaters spring to fall, often in vast clusters within one area, sometimes in swarms dense enough to be visible on weather monitoring equipment. Once airborne adults, they no longer eat — they are solely focused on mating and egg-laying. 

I don’t know if these shining pixies I see on the river are a type of mayfly. Nor if they are searching for a mate to prolong their kind. Does the sunlight make them more or less visible — and so more likely to survive, or to be gobbled up by swallows, bats, and fish? What sensors guide these little beings to stay within the sun rays even as it rises and the shadows shift? What’s the source that keeps them going? Do they derive their energy from these solar rays or have they stored up reserves? Am I witnessing a poignant, beautiful final act, keeping in the slits of life-giving light right until they let go and die, their bodies gracefully becoming nutrients for others? I wonder, are they driven by instinct to seek the light to gain energy, or do they just ache to gather together with others of their ilk? Would this species die if they were to stay in the shadows? Could the end of their kind occur if they stayed alone in the darkness?

I like the feel of warm sunlight on my skin (who doesn’t?). Especially when I feel caught within a cold shadowy place. Yet we all began in darkness. And we all face periods when we may need to retreat a bit, to reclaim our center. Even brilliance can be too potent. The grand adventure that is life, (really, how we respond to the experience we call “life”) can overpower us, and unexpectedly drain our energy. Sensate beings that we are, we crave the safety of a haven to recharge. A safe, trusted space where we can feel less exposed and be less vulnerable. We all sometimes need room to fully absorb potent experiences and genuinely grow from them. Seems a wise way to re-balance within, a sort of recalibrating and maturing of our inner compass. 

To me this feels healthy, to be sensitive to our selves by withdrawing a bit. Yet we too would surely wither if we stay in the dark. Our primal needs eventually kick-in, and at some point we all return to some degree of sharing within those vitalizing communal rays. In my experience it’s not as much fun to venture back alone. Especially when those we with whom we felt a camaraderie, friends with whom we shared bright smiles, or danced in the light, have found another ray. Or they may still be attending to their own restoration, when we feel ready to fly or swim within the fleeting sunshine.  No matter, we have no option but to honor the moment, leap toward the light when we are compelled, and hold our own place in the golden shafts, sparkling specks amid the challenging winds and currents. I trust that the great cycle of life, beyond the veils of our individual experiences, ultimately always shines on and embraces us all.

​Awake. It’s a drizzly Sunday morning. Foggy head and unsettled heart. Need a walk in the woods. Grab a hat and rain jacket. Only one vehicle in the lot, a red pickup. Hit the trail and try to let my thoughts unwind, do what they will, not resist but not get tangled up in them. Everything is lush and verdant, refreshed from the cleansing rains. Maybe they can rinse my heart. 

The trail is muddy. As I walk in the woods, alone yet again, I feel the familiar solitude. It’s comfortable like an old sweater, until something triggers the ache for a hug and the aloneness is instantly palpable. Just then I notice the deer prints before me, and am suddenly appreciative of the endless, subtle wonders always before us. I lean on a huge old poplar, and try to absorb some its silent steady strength. I sense an unequal exchange—as if I’m making a withdrawal and don’t have much to give back today. Mostly the trees and greenery of all shapes and sizes feel happy. Like they’ve been feasting on the loosened nutrients the rains have made available. Everything is glistening as if just emerging from a sauna. A few trees have lost their grip, and been pulled from their heights back to earth, starved by the dry spell then after the showers apparently too loaded to hang on. 

Some become trail-blocks. Scaleable hurdles; minor disruptions really. Life constantly offers them. I clamber over and for just an instant lose several decades. Was their fall awkward, like when we flop onto our keister after slipping an an icy patch? Or graceful, maybe a pirouette was involved, and perhaps even a gentle touching of the extended limbs of friends nearby as they swirled to a soft landing in the moss…?) I wonder if their final recline across the human path was a parting gift, to encourage our agility and keep us ready for bigger challenges?

Yet the turkey tail reveals they never really stop giving. Even as they slowly disrobe and disassemble their once solid trunks, all manner of life is being fostered on their decaying bodies, and beyond. Fungi freely and generously offering vast healing and restorative resources for us to boost or recover our own vitality. If only we listen, learn and respectfully participate in this endless dance.

Roots older than me form both soil retainers and steps, making me conscious of my boots pressing on them. I further soften my steps to not disrupt the gentle music of the raindrops flicking leaves on their descent with a backdrop of crickets chirping. Wet leaves radiate gold, silver, and scarlet against the soft pale jade and sea gray boulders. The vividly glowing moss seems to be expanding before my eyes. 

A buck races across the path and stops short on the hill just above me. I slow, then stop, and nod at him. He eyes me warily, and then after a pause nibbles at some fresh greens, ears on full alert to my presence. I take in a few deep breaths, and we make eye contact. He steps a few cautious steps downhill. Maybe he smells my slight sweat, or is it my mending heart? He licks his chops, gives me a last look and gracefully heads uphill. My journey, this shared journey, continues, and for this I’m grateful.
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​In the last month I’ve encountered so many animals—many deer (not so unusual—except for the one that was half albino!), and oodles of other critters (including five snakes!) while going about my normal daily routines. I live in the city, am working on an exterior residential job that’s just on the city limit, and occasionally visit the neighborhood Roanoke River.  None of these critters was “out of their element”, and all are common to the region.

Five weeks ago my brother in law passed unexpectedly, leaving me and our extended families raw. Everyone who’s experienced such loss can relate to the strange space you’re dropped into during such a time. Maybe after one’s heart has been broken open our awareness is heightened a bit. Or maybe we feel more acutely and can attune to more refined sensations of other beings that we normally ignore... 

It’s hard not to wonder if somehow, in concert with the stretching of our emotional capacity during grief, other capacities expand, as if our invisible antennae pick up (and send out) a more subtle radar. Just as I have felt a bit more fragile in my interactions with humans, I also catch myself noticing subtle things among non-human beings. The industry of spiders, the blossoming and fading of flowers, the conversations among the crows, the hawks “singing”…

There was the deer that approached my porch late at night as I wrote Scott’s obituary. Even as I wiped my tears, rose and walked down two flights of steps onto the sidewalk, it stood looking, as if unsure whether to bound away—like it had sensed me sobbing and was checking on me. It didn’t want to leave. 

There are the bats that follow me as I float — yes gobbling bugs but something about their flight patterns and willingness to veer so close to me makes me smile. 

And the wrens that flit onto the porch rails in the evening, chattering away, glancing at me in between their rapid-fire gossip, as if to say “are you listening?” then departing. 

I planted a potted tree on my return from the funeral services intentionally reflecting on my brother in law as I did, and sure enough in digging the hole uncovered two worm snakes. Last week on the job a black snake was keeping cool under some of my house painting equipment and if not for my redirection, would have continued slithering right up my ladder. 

On an inner tube float following heavy rains, as I approached some falls I noticed a stick was swiftly passing before me in the murky water— but strangely it was moving cross-current?! I then realized it was a snake (garter or water snake I’m not sure) headed to the opposite bank. That same excursion I happened upon a great grandpa of a snapping turtle. I see it about once a year, with its enormous shell as big as two flattened basketballs. It lay unmoving (except for its eye watching me) merging perfectly with the boulder on which it was warming. 

Yesterday, again looking to settle my heart after work, as dusk was approaching I went for a float. I passed a quartet of happy friends singing a cappella under the bridge where I put in. Their joyful harmonies rang in my ears as I hurried past hoping to beat the coming dark. Their voices echoing in the concrete arches made me pause intentionally for just a second before popping my tube in the river at the water’s edge. As I took a breath and gazed at the river, another leg-less critter swam up from the shallows just in front of me! I snapped some pix and watched it move along up the bank. 

While in the water floating, I came upon three types of herons (Yellow-crowned Night Heron; Great Blue; and Green). The night heron just watched me approach — literally hand paddling toward it, I came within ten feet. Further along I was lost in thought and almost floated right past the great blue, which, most unusually, never took flight. And lastly, a normally very shy green heron stood its ground on a bank while I spun nonchalantly past. 

Does all this have any significance? IDK. Does anything in our lives have “significance”? It’s all part of the story we tell ourselves, so it seems to me, sure — as much significance as we choose to assign to each experience. It’s my impression there are vast worlds of communication happening among other species (and between species). Other cultures have long recognized this — ours is just barely beginning to accept there’s a constant dialogue. Similarly we’re finally acknowledging “communication” among the plant and fungi realms. So it seems to me as valid to claim our interactions with other beings are laden with meaning as to say they are random occurrences. Why not tell tales that reinforce our connection to other life forms? What if our belief in separateness is really the “fictional story” obscuring a more true view. 

I DO know that I dearly miss and am working to come to terms with the loss of my good friend Scott. He loved the natural world: caring for it, being immersed within it, and interacting with animals in particular (incidentally, he used to volunteer at the Indy Zoo in the reptile and snake center). So for me, of late, I’m perfectly happy to accept all these encounters as sweet vital affirmations: nonverbal meet-ups, connections with supportive non-human friends checking in on me, implying I (we all) also ought to pay more attention to them, since while we are here, we’re so very much all in this together. 
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We’ve all experienced (especially the last couple years) how the roller coaster of life can toss us unexpected challenges. I’m learning it’s all about how we respond to them. Sometimes the challenges are embodied in relationships. Inevitably there are those we lose. Sometimes our orbit overlaps with other folks and an energetic dynamic occurs but never blossoms. Other relationships can literally carry us beautifully through times when we are unsure how to move forward. Sometimes the mysterious threads that bind, though invisible in the moment, reveal themselves decades later.

I had a friend in graduate school, Bill, who, like me, was focused on painting. We both were headstrong, somewhat insecure, and driven to learn our discipline and grow. We respected each other and routinely squabbled as we struggled to articulate our art paths and how they fit into the complexities of both the art world and the world at large. As we achieved our MFAs, our art lives were each suddenly redirected by our relations with intimate partners and young lives for which we were responsible.   

We then were out of touch for about 25 years. Living, holding tightly yet tenuously to our individual versions of an art life-line amid all sorts of other concerns and struggles. I reached out when FB was born and we made light contact but never really broached much conversation. There was so much life that had passed for us both, and so much I wanted to discuss, share and learn! It was never to be. 

Planning a day-trip to Richmond, I reached out as I’d done before, and typically got no response. The night before the three hour drive I looked him up one more time on FB and to my great sadness his son Miguel indicated he had passed in between when I’d sent my last message to him and that evening. I wrote a brief note of condolence and suggested perhaps one day in the future we might meet up to share stories and maybe work through grief a bit. To my surprise, Miguel wrote back while I was on the way to Richmond the following morning. We hastily arranged to meet, along with his girlfriend Christine, and instantly bonded. 

Or I might say, further bonded, as I had met him when he was a toddler, just a few times for brief encounters, as his father and my grad school days were ending. Miguel is a brilliant painter and teacher and Christine has focused on film but both have a breadth of understanding in several fields and wisdom rare for their age. They struck a chord in me with their broad intelligence, clear-eyed sensitivity, compassion, and deep desire to contribute to a better world. In a word they give me hope about our future. I was honored to be at their wedding a few years later. We have been in touch ever since, and in dozens of small yet profound ways they have helped me grow and added a special richness to my life. 

Yesterday they made the trip to Roanoke to see an exhibition of my work. An extraordinary bonus was for the first time meeting their five month old son, Nico. We don’t get together often, and the pandemic exacerbated this, yet as usual without hesitation we can effortlessly engage in fun, interesting, and heartfelt discussion for hours. We spoke about family, prejudices, loss, moments of insight, loves. I thoroughly savor their company. Clearly we are all starved for intimacy, touch, and hugs despite (or because of) the questionable, awful notion that these most primal of human needs are something we’ve been told are nowadays to be feared. I’ve also had some recent loss in my family, and have friends who lost dear ones in the same few weeks. The undefinable heavy clouds of grief shadow my recent days. 

I realized after they departed that sweet Nico is the first baby I have held in nearly three years. There are no words to express the potency that the light in an infant’s smile brings to one’s heart during such times. There’s no better reminder that the Light is there glowing in us all. We only need to allow ourselves to notice, let our guard down, open our hearts, and let it touch us. 
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[Exhibit on view at Alexander/Heath Contemporary Art Gallery, ROanoke, VA]

There’s nothing necessarily extraordinary about the trail I was on this morning. I’ve relished my river time the last few years, but recently realized lately I’ve spent very little time in the woods. So I took advantage of the cool morning, set aside other tasks and wandered up our local Mill Mountain. There was a time not long ago when this was a Sunday morning ritual for me, and it felt really good to go back to my “church.”  

I encountered no one on the hike up, and this allowed me to more fully immerse into the environs. I was pleasantly surprised that despite not hiking for several months my legs were up to the ascent. A sense of peace steadily washed over and through me. I became aware how much I missed the familiar trail and multi-sensory forest experience. The steady rains this summer had nurtured a solid canopy of rich green foliage that kept me cool and in shade. Chickadees and nuthatches chattered and a few woodpeckers could be heard tapping away. I noticed my breathing adapted to the pace of my steps. I enjoyed the slight challenge of stepping over decades-old roots and small rocks. I recognized a couple of landmark boulders like familiar friendly faces I hadn’t seen in a long time. 

I felt a presence in these woods, I suppose mostly from the trees. It’s a peculiar, hard to define sensation. The soil isn’t especially rich, mostly shallow and rocky, and so lots of the trees are a foot or less in diameter; a few are double that size. Occasionally in my life I’ve felt the power of a particularly large tree — especially potent in old growth forests — but this morning what I felt was not that. It was more like a communal energy emanating from these hillsides. It is impossible to walk in a forest left to its natural course and not come upon hanging limbs here and there, fallen trees, decaying stumps, fungi, moss, and sprouting saplings. The full process of life is conspicuously on display. And prodding our other senses as well with scents of pine or decomposing wood, the texture of smooth bark we and a thousand others have grasped to round a switchback, and even the varied feel of moss, sandy patches, mud, or pine needles crushed beneath our step.

Though savoring the trail, my mind floated to recent news of yet another friend’s passing. Does the opening of our hearts after losing a loved one make us more sensitized to the death of others? Are we as a culture insensitive to death? Do we act this way to avoid dealing with it because we are so lousy at facing it? Unlike the obvious cycles of life in a forest, it often feels like our culture wants us to deny that aging even occurs. If we remove convenient yet quaint ideas of an afterlife provided by our dominant religions, are a cynical atheism or a clinical adherence to “science” the only alternative? I don’t have answers; I only know I sometimes sense an awareness that transcends my experiences. 

As I made my way to the top, I noticed a young doe very near the trail calmly, innocently, munching on some greenery.  Even as I stopped and stared, it continued, life eating life, listening intently, ready to spring, yet delightfully unafraid. We may not be able to articulate everything we know in words. But somehow, our brief encounter and exchange of presences, our communion, for me felt deeply reassuring.

Even after hundreds of floats in my slightly discolored, slightly misshapen inner tube, few things bring me such peace. It’s been in the 90°s here and I’ve been working outdoors. After a hot workday, cooling my limbs off while gently carried along in a slow-flowing river is exquisite. Encountering a few other beings seeking refuge only adds to the delight. And if they aren’t noisy humans (with noisy mechanisms) disrupting the serenity of the moment, for me, it’s as good as it gets.

​I happened to notice the female yellow-crowned heron in the branches of the tree on the right. We eyed each other as I drifted past. I’d already passed a couple of males upstream. It occurred to me the setting sun might make a nice counterpoint to the bird’s silhouetted form in the branches. So, unusually, I managed to quietly back-paddle with my hands against the current, toward where she was perched. Though she watched me warily, and hopped within the branches a bit, fortunately I didn’t scare her off. As I worked to hold my place paddling with one hand and fumbling for my phone with the other, clouds wafted in front of the golden sun, and I felt further lucky.
 
I snapped a few photos, let go of resisting the flow, and as I drifted downstream, contentedly absorbed the whole shimmering scene. The vast 60 foot piers of the Elm Avenue Bridge framed it all even as I felt everything (including me) merge into the gorgeous and ever-mysterious unfolding. Gifted beyond words to be part of it all.