The Medicine We Need
It was impossible to walk quietly this morning on the paths through the fields and back to the woods. A second round of freezing rain Saturday night glazed every fallen, decaying leaf and tired blade of grass for the seventeen-acre loop that begins and ends at our mud room door, making my bootsteps crunch loudly like those first fresh bites of cornflakes before the milk softens them soggy. I venture out most days with a fragile agenda that hopes for silence and wild companions to join me from a distance, and I graciously receive whatever the land gives me. I am never disappointed when I return to the house, chickens fed and watered, porch swept or salted (whatever it needs most) and walking boots drying at the register near the washing machine. Water boiling for the morning oats seals the deal on what I consider to be the best way to start the day.
Last Sunday, for the first time since we’ve been here, I veered off the main path past the sweat lodge and put my feet where the deer walk, a series of connected and well-worn tributaries through the old ironweed stalks and young sycamore saplings. I used my walking stick to push back brambles and plunged further eastward on the trails, pausing by a tree I didn’t recognize and feeling humbled by the realization that this place hadn’t known human footprints in over twenty-five years. Whatever pulled me forward—curiosity or Something Else—rewarded me with a most stunning find: a full eight-point buck skull, teeth intact and bleached perfectly white. The remaining bits of skeleton lay in a small pile a few feet away and I could only hope this magnificent relative had passed peacefully, surrendering to sleep and a smooth crossing over to the other side. I lifted the skull gently from the cold ground and carried it to the mouth of the meadow where I’d retrieve it on my way back to the house, leaving a string of unanswered questions in the dead grass.
I kept to the paths this morning and as I rounded a slight curve toward the place where a favorite young sycamore stands tall and brave, I saw the soft white glow of a four-point antler resting atop a thick plug of quack grass. It hadn’t been there on yesterday’s walk and the tiny reddish-pink spot of blood at its base was evidence enough that all kinds of things go on out there when we’re not looking. The difference a day makes, eh? I plucked it from the ground and lifted my gaze to the young woods north where three does and a twelve-point buck had been silently watching me. The largest of the does gave a warning snort and took off into the forest while the buck stood there, not moving, just…staring. I turned and showed him my shoulder blades as I moved down the path, head down and not returning his penetrating look, marveling at his utter stillness. Stand your ground took on new meaning in an instant.
The world is an especially noisy place right now and I crave silence in amounts equal to water and air. Most days the hum of traffic a mile away is light or nonexistent and I can bring my full attention to the shrill call of a bright red cardinal or laugh along with the raucous crows flying just over the woods’ canopy on their way to what sounds like a fun party. The woodpeckers are just starting to drill into the still-standing-but-dead black walnuts that line the creek banks, and last week I saw a small flock of sturdy robins bouncing about in the meadow, looking confused and sheepish, as if the memo they’d received had been some sort of prank designed to lure them back to their summer home prematurely. They soldiered on, though, pecking at the ground and slanting their heads slightly to listen for…what, worms crawling beneath the frozen top crust of soil? I left them to it and scooped out extra seed for them near the feeders dangling from hooks on the ridge.
I don’t think it’s a stretch to say that our souls are weary and in need of a powerful balm to calm things the heck down, if just for five blessed minutes. And I realize at the same time that to receive the gift of such a pause is one more hallmark of privilege; there are too many brothers and sisters who don’t have that luxury and must keep moving, no matter how tired they are. I know I can’t fix everything, or even some things, but I can and do walk on their behalf, taking not a single step for granted, sending the peace from the fields across the miles and countries’ borders to reach them, fingers crossed, with a small morsel of healing.
What else can I do? It’s a question I ask myself regularly and I must get comfortable with the silence that follows, waiting for the answer to arrive. There is medicine in the waiting, I know.
