The Hike

The way up was punctuated with little chanterelles.

Tiny orange stepping stones for lively evanescent fea feet.

So unlike my human feet.

Mile after mile, always up…

I didn’t want to be breathing so hard. I didn’t want to be so tired. I thought I should be better.

Somewhere near the summit I started to cry.

It was terrifying to seem so weak.  

With that thought came a raven-

loud cry and sudden swooping shadow.

“Hey!” He said.

“I’m here! It’s OK to struggle. You know I did.”

Raven is always my Papa, come for a visit from the other side.

He knew hardship like an old friend, and he came to say it’s OK. 

So I rested- and soaked up the mountain,

gazing gratefully on the bold inflorescence of  an unknown flower*

as if some gift or prize for slowing down. 

 

I was strong and tired, ready to try again.

Observing that time feels different at the top of a mountain.

It’s like every living thing up there is heavy with a different kind of knowing-

the secrets of harsh freezing storms and close starlight.

 

On the way down

we passed along a steep slope where the sun was just so

and touched each yellow jewelweed flower with the softness of the afternoon.

The smooth delicate forest of tender dark green leaves

and sunny bonnets

made a hush all the way down the side of the mountain,

which opened a portal

to the subtle body of the ridge,

and I could almost see the elves emerge through the valley and they almost saw me.

 

Look at how the brown dead leaves

beneath the rejoicing jewelweed

is the somnolent remainder of the Mayapple.

The fallen brethren, laying down their brightness to the cushy woodland floor.

Passing the torch to the tall singing jewelweed.

 

If we add up all the passing moments we get one big dream. Alaya.

 

“We are in this dream together” said the big boy buck,

as he looked in my eyes with soft liquid intensity

and bounded over the shafts of evening light

and turning seasons.

 

 Poem and art by Merenda Cecelia
 *The flower turned out to be poison fly trap.