A Walk in the Woods

The fog enshrouding the mountain was thick, like a wet woolen blanket. It dripped, stalagmite-like, from the scrub oaks. I crossed the small bridge and smelled the early morning waking around me. The musky dirt squishing under my sneakers. A Red-Winged Blackbird called for community or a possible mate. A scrub Jay’s cacophonous call pierced the wind. I headed towards the dark, gnarly outstretched canopy of limbs that stood, watching. The tall Horsetail, their reeds encircled like snakes, swayed on my left, concealing whatever lay. I reminded myself that I have been on this trail so often. There were no Mountain Lions. Probably. I looked for a substantial weapon. Just in case. I was aware, again, as serenity and panic played musical chairs, co-existing in my heart and mind.

I loved the mornings in this Northern California sanctuary. I knew that eventually, like all matters, the occluding fog would lift. I knew, without a doubt, that somewhere beyond this heavy envelopment, the sky was cloudless, the sun, will make me drip. But not yet. Slowly, as I climbed up the trail, worlds would open before and behind and above and within.

But that didn’t seem to ease my jagged breath, as I heard a noise. Around the bend was not a mountain lion. Or a malevolent man. It was something just as fierce. A mother turkey. Her three chicks plucking at their breakfast plate, crunchy bugs and spaghetti worms, their breakfast of champions. I waited, thanking the universe that I was not on the menu, figuring how to maneuver around the fowl. I asked them to kindly step off the trail. They did not. I softly explained that I didn’t want to hurt or eat them; I just wanted to pass and share the earth harmoniously. They ignored me, until I took a step. Their mother, a rising phoenix, warned me, looming larger, with such vehemence. I stopped. They stepped off the trail, half-heartedly – I could hear them – oppressive humans upon us once more! I realized, yes, I am, now let me through and stepped up the mountain. I passed them and then the unthinkable. The mother was chasing me, pecking at the air, only because I scrambled. She did not let up until, in that split second, I remembered I had my eyes in front, theirs on the sides. I was the predator, now get before I make an early Thanksgiving! We called a truce, each with our hide and ruffled feathers intact.

The path meandered, sherpa-like, zigzagging the mountain. The air was lifting, being sucked back into the great San Franciscan Bay. I was climbing, my muscles adjusting to the slippery terrain. My breath swirling, like Pete’s Dragon, friendly and wispy., just another being traversing where others have, lest I feel separate, unique, lonely or alone.

As it so happens, so frequently, when I am on this or any other part of the divine, a thought, a directive, an inspiration catalysts in my brain. You must write You must. You are a writer. Take back who you are. Just like you are taking back the trails on which you were violated. One trail at a time. Take back your words, your stories. Tell your memories. You have permission to make them up. Just write. What? Okay. What should I write? You’ll know. Okay. How about from the beginning? How far back? You know. Oh, right. In uterus. Now you are getting somewhere.

And so it begins. Like so many spiritual dialogues. A command from the universe, often surrounded by brambles or bushes, to act in an unexpected way, at least to one’s self. Then, it rumbles in my mind, it flitters and twists in my heart, it digs its roots in my belly, until I spew lava language that was just as expected as the season’s first purple lupine I spot.