It is early evening as we walk, heads down, through piney woods to a beaver meadow and watch grasses blow around. Bleached and bony pines guard the spaces where dense woods become open lumpy habitat for birds and where inky slow water snakes its way toward some other home. We stand for a while without words. Little by little our intrusion on this place softens and we begin to blend in, becoming part of what it was before our arrival disturbed things.
Mia sits among tall grasses with her sketch pad trying to capture the details. I stand, using the top of a fence post as a makeshift easel taking in the bigger picture. Black flies harass the corners of my eyes and crawl along the hairline on the back of my neck. I pause to brush them away and continue with my pen, remembering my wise artist friend Kate’s advice to be free as I sketch. Loosen my grip, don’t let it become too precious, embrace the mistakes, keep going. Good advice for arting and life.
After a little while I close my notebook and wander with the dogs through the tall grasses, their wagging tails disappearing just a few feet ahead of me. When I stop to write or sketch or look closely at the miracle that is a seed pod hanging off the end of a delicate stem four feet off the ground, the dogs come back to see what’s keeping me. They wait for me to finish, panting and wagging their tails until I accidentally make eye contact. Then they smile and wag harder. Okay I say quietly and we are off again, pushing through the waist high green. There is only the sound of breezes bumping into and flowing around the things that are pushing their way skyward, roots driving through black rich earth and muck.
Near the beaver meadow is a spot where an old hunting camp stood for many years. The forest service has recently brought in heavy equipment to dismantle and remove it, dragging it out of the woods as if excising a human-made sore from this otherwise perfect place. Wild blueberries are already beginning to fill the spaces around empty bullet casings and other detritus left behind. Someone has carved a small totem of a bear out of a stump at the edge of the woods. Soon the tire tracks will disappear among grasses and briars, erasing human evidence altogether.
On the way back Mia and I talk of ferns: how each fern is so many fronds, and each frond is its own miniature version of a fern. She collects grasses and we talk of what a miracle they are with their sometimes fluffy sometimes flat top hat of seeds just waiting. The dogs trot happily along, always ahead of us, sniffing things and chasing real or imaginary creatures. When the gap between us becomes too great, they pause and turn, making sure we follow.