I tried to start with a soothing thought of the forest floor, but kept associating it to my carpeted floor hoping my carpet floor isn’t as full of life as the forest floor. It’s not the same. We don’t want living things in our carpet floors. But yet it’s likely true. I probably lay to stretch on top of things that rely on me to drop food crumbs to sustain life. I’m trying to get back into the woods in my noggin. It is so full of life. I have a collection of pictures from yesterday to prove it. And to show no one. But myself.
They are things I learned as a child. I don’t know the May Apple from any other way than my dad saying that’s a May Apple. Or a trillium, or a bloodroot. I still was sending him pictures from places I’ve gone and things I’ve found that he taught me how to find and the places to find them in. I know some things will be more prevalent along the edges of the water but just above where it might flood sometimes. Or some will be on the back sides of certain trees dead and decaying. I know where to look from years little watching him look in those places and proudly displaying the mushroom we weren’t even looking for.
Now what? He’s gone. I don’t think I will ever be someone who thinks I’m being spoken to from beyond the grave. I may not have this type of imagination. Plus my dad is being researched by science not in a grave. But I could see getting to a place that like yesterday I just was who I was and showed my girls the things I know which I know because he knew. So if I really stretch he is with me forever. Because I’m part of him forever. It’s painful to imagine. Because of his absence. But maybe someday I can feel less pain from the thought. But it’s today and not someday and I know if I don’t get back to today I’m going to die in my mind.
It’s magical. The life that comes up from a dormant frozen soil full of organic layers in the woods. When it thaws it doesn’t just thaw it was hiding all this magic. I can’t think of a better word. It’s not just life and a living forest floor it’s a magical unfurling of life of the living forest floor. If I could sit for longer than 6 minutes I would love to sit and watch it. Day in and day out the world thaw and life begin again. But I can’t sit for 6 weeks just roughly 6 minutes and during that time I’m sitting and telling myself to sit not really sitting.
The whole time I’m walking my dads there but not there and I’m still there. I tried to pretend he is there and not was there. My pretend was busy pretending so many things it was tasking me.
My daughter learned maybapple and trillium. It was a game. I would tell her she had to find it or she couldn’t play in the water. But she couldn’t leave the trail to find them. I’m trying to teach her to look down and look. I’m trying to teach her to listen. She thinks it’s odd she can’t be loud outside. I think it’s odd I want her to be quiet outside. But I can’t hear anything if she talks loud outside. I imagine my father struggled this same way toting me around to places as well. I don’t remember, likely from being too loud to hear him say to be less loud. If a bird is chirping and even several I want to hear them. Just them. I stopped her several times and made her hold her breath and listen. Then tell me what she heard. She said she heard her breath held at first. Then slowly her answers became things to listen to outside of herself. The water. The wind. The birds. Then the game became dull and lifeless because she is 6 and wanted to play dolls soon. I wanted to go home and watch Gilmore Girls. We were about done with the adventurous day.
My oldest daughter who has Down syndrome rocked. She hates the woods. Hates trees. Hates dirty shoes and hates water. I don’t know where this girl came from other than I have the painful yet wonderful memory of making and delivering her into the world. This thought nearly took me into the moment she was told to be anything less than what I saw of her the first moment I saw her. Too long of a story.
She walked up and over and under and through. For hours. I pushed her so hard. She pushed back. She had new shoes and was furious they were wet and dirty. She was huffing and puffing and blowing the woods down. She walked over 3 miles in a place she didn’t want to walk 3 steps. Came out and got in the car and said “I did good job hiking.” All breathless and red. She did. She totally did.
My dad would be proud. Would have been too. I would have sent him all of these pictures. Once I actually did. Then deleted it before I sent it in case my mom was near his phone and would have to look at it only to see that it was me confused he was still here. She would cry. I would cry and we both don’t want to cry every single day. Except we will for awhile. It is part of the process of grief. I could have sent them and probably should have. I don’t have something yet to replace the place I sent them to. I felt alone and sad with no where to send my things. I came to the conclusion, I will just not send them. They will go to right in front of me. Right in front of me is my kids. They will get to learn what I learned. I don’t need to send it anywhere they are right with me. Right in front of my feet walking with me.
Aspenleaf 