When I was twenty-two, I lived on the
verdant and craggy coast of Oregon
and I studied the animals that lived inside the mud of the slough. When
the tide went out, the mudflats glistened -- a globular, thickened mass of sulphur-scented
habitat.
Each one of my friends was drawn to
this dot of a coastal town because we couldn’t be away from the sea’s abiding
pull. So, we lived in deference to the power of nature, which entered our
houses at will and grew blackberry brambles across our living room floors. In
response, we emptied our houses onto nature’s lawn, placing the bathtub on the
bluff under the kitchen window and feeding a water hose down the face of the
house to fill the claw foot with hot water. When we bathed, and if we were very
still, a herd of forty elk emerged through the wooded barrier separating their
forest from our meadow. Out they came, munching on grass and snorting at flies
while the aged bull stood guard watching over them.
Those days were full of a sparkled innocence
though none of us was young enough to be truly innocent. Beyond the tides of
human failures and joys lay the immaculate pull of the Universe’s own creation.
We came together over hand-picked meals and efforts to catch glimpse of the
orcas in the sound, over knitting and car mechanics and weddings and
departures. We joined forces in Frisbee and pool. The Oregon
coast enchanted me, the
way it whispered in my ear when we were alone, making me its daughter. I
learned we are held in something large.
When I left and found myself in New York City,
I felt the same way about the wilderness of humanity. I became a part of a body
outside my own. When I stepped one way, the person in front of me stepped the
other. We were all a weaving tapestry of destinations and deadlines. When I
dropped a dollar, a gentleman picked it up and handed it back. When I carried
my luggage up the subway steps, the weight disappeared into the helpful gesture
of a stranger holding the other end of my bag. When I danced outdoors, the
stars reminded me they had always been there for me in a same but
different sky.
We are held in something large.
And even in the suburbs, of which I
complain of late, I can’t help but feel the urgency of trees and sparrows and
squirrels to mark on this earth a hiding place. I see my own heart grow in its
yearning, in its separation from wilderness and constant humanity. This place is
a necessary space for me to explore. Without the ability to lean on that which
inspires me directly, I must dig into the mud. I see divinity every day in the
tug of my own heart to reconnect. Longing carves a channel to be filled. The rush
of tidal water I await has its own shimmering quality of anticipation. There is
nowhere else to go but toward hope and desire and a letting go of expectations.
The reluctance I see in people here to reach out reminds me we are held in
something large because its opposite exists. There cannot be one without the
other.
We are held in something large.
