Channels

“It is a matter of making a channel and guiding one’s boat through it, day by day.”

-May Sarton, on depression

I open the front door and with my hand still on the doorknob, I look over at my dog Silas lying on the couch. I raise my eyebrows at him, this fluidity of motion—going out the door, looking at him, raising my eyebrows—is then joined by his fluidity. He slides his golden body off the couch, front feet first. He walks his body off the couch, fulling stretching out his back legs before they step off the couch.

He follows me outside to walk the round-about, the pathways around the fenced-in part of the yard. Once outside, I always say let’s take a gander, shall we? Today, I head towards the one side yard littered with peanut shells from when the jays come by and feast on the nuts we throw out for them. Silas heads in the opposite direction, following his nose, to the flower garden that the neighbor’s cat uses as a litter box. He eventually shows up at my side after doing his obligatory investigations. After peanut lane, I head to the shade of the hemlock and walnut tree.

I have been in a little funk—in my mind, not in my actions. Narrowing in on my shortcomings, all of them having to do with time or how I can’t do anything right. The futility of everything. What does a walk or insight matter? What does a poem matter? Very silly things that aren’t serious and are—in fact—against my grain. Because in my world, all those things matter immensely. But I am able to move my body—even though it sometimes moves a little funny—and so I do. Every wormhole into the woods. Every dark nook. Through the privet and briars.

Under the hemlock and walnut tree, I’ve planted numerous woodland plants like ginger, ramps, Virginia Bluebells, Ostrich Fern, Mayapples, and Bloodroot. There is a wee (has anyone else noticed that writers in Ireland and Scotland use the word “wee” a lot? I adore it) pathway through this little menagerie of plants and flowers that would render most folks confused because it seemingly leads to nowhere. It’s the pathway to the one solitary Ostrich Fern on the property. I have yet to do the research as to why after all these years there is still just one. But I love this fern and visit them often. A little guilt comes with this statement considering that I don’t do this with every bluebell or mayapple. But that’s another essay for another day. Splayed and glorious, the Ostrich Fern sits behind our wood shed under the hemlock. I think of the hundreds or thousands of Ostrich Ferns I could pass in one single hike, but this fern is different.

As I visited Ostrich Fern, I take note of other plants growing around it. A White Ash sapling, briars, Catchweed, and whoa, something with large, leafy stalks. I look at them more closely and follow the stalks down to the dirt where a large, waxy pitcher sits facing away from me. Oh my god. A Jack-in-the-Pulpit! How?

Having spent most of my life identifying and admiring the more-than-human world on my own, it wasn’t until I was in my thirties that I found my people and began to learn about flora, fauna, and funga through them. Most of them retirees, photographers, or professionals in fields of science, I found myself learning a lot. But with this gift of knowing fascinating folks comes the irrational envy of the time and circumstances they possess. They’re not rotting in an office 40+ hours a week and commuting an additional 5 hours. Most folks know that I possess no job ambition. I’m ambitious to go home.

The Jack-in-the-Pulpit was a plant that my peers often saw, but I hadn’t. It wasn’t until a couple years ago when I was hiking in the Upper Peninsula of Michigan with my husband that I spied the plant for the first time. Since then, I had seen the plant a few times in Pennsylvania. But here they are now, larger than any other one I’ve seen. I immediately texted my husband Brian who was diligently working, surrounded by walls and screens, a window next to him giving him a view of the real world.

And is it true? Did I plant Jack last year and forget? When we moved into this house, I found a journal in the shed containing recipes and tinctures passed down in reciprocity. I went out and bought a journal to keep track of the flora, fauna, and funga of the land we live on. I separated the land into parcels and made lists of everything I saw growing in that parcel. But like most projects, I let that go by the wayside for now. And over the years, my memory has become incredibly poor to the point where I can rewatch a TV series as if it’s new. Just this year, I’ve planted and transplanted a lot. Will the foamflower be next year’s surprise? What about the black oak seedling I recently pulled out from my garden bed?

I turned around to find Silas comfortably lounging on the Ostrich Fern path which is also the Jack-in-the-Pulpit path. Plants have a way of storing time under their leaves. As I row my way through the channels in our yard, there is something different to see day after day. In this yard, distance is measured in patches of light. Time is measured in roosts and petals.

I continued on past the bird bath and down Bluebird Lane lined with bluebird boxes. The first and fourth boxes have hosted nests so far this year. Five eggs are guarded in the final box at this time. Along Bluebird Lane is the woodpile which hosts House Sparrows. A patch of Soapwort claims the base of a Locust tree. Ahead, a wormhole into the adjacent woods and another pathway to the edge of land above the train tracks. Staghorn Sumac. Walnut trees. Take the other direction, there is the base of our yard. Brian’s blueberries. Buttonbush. Tickseed. Poison ivy. So much honeysuckle, strangling everything. Privet to cut down. Multiflora rose, out of nowhere, in bloom. Meadow buttercup. Then comes the longer side yard, adjacent to our neighbor’s homestead of chickens, ducks, geese, and turkeys. The Redbud sapling. The Tulip Poplar Sapling. The Serviceberry sapling. The wide canopies of Norway Maples. A new discovery—Autumn Olive. My peers want for me to hate Autumn Olive but I can’t help but love the shimmering undersides of their leaves and the frosty-looking edible fruit full of Vitamin C. I discover yet another Mulberry tree. I lop the brush around them to give them more light. As I do this, it’s as if someone is lopping the brush around my head, as well. Silas touches noses with the neighbor’s Collie. At this time, I have a wagon full of privet limbs and I wheel it past the pollinator garden, lilac bushes, and the gorgeous, untamed Mock Orange who is in bloom. We’ve come full circle and wow, look at the time. It’s been over an hour, every bent grass blade, bark cranny, and bird box holding nests of my minutes, seconds. And Jack, despite my inattention and silly human issues, preaches his sermon of light from his purple pulpit.