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Arts & Letters
A List of Some Things Collected—Pennies, String, Sealing Wax, Part I
"Adult cynicism—it’s only a penny; it’s not real, why pick it up?"
By Erika Milo
Posted on Apr 22, 2003 |
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| "A King Tree" by Erika Miko |
I’m listing again. I can’t help it. I am so ignorant and words are all I have, the rows and rows of them to sort this muddle of experience into some arbitrary order. These things have been given to me, cast up out of nothingness, into order—or perhaps the other way around. I am listing as I go along, as I find them, or as they find me. . . I have never been too clear on where the line between seeker and sought is drawn. I am ignorant, I know so little—let me list now to tally up the little that I have. This much I can say for certain. . .
* * *
1. Some thoughts about pennies.
Annie Dillard writes that she used to hide pennies when she was a child, on sidewalks or among tree roots, and write “Surprise ahead” in chalk, with great white arrows pointing. She imagined the surprise of a happy person encountering the treasure, but she never stayed to watch, leaving it to the wanderings of the world. The world, she goes on to say, is strewn with such pennies, “unwrapped gifts and free surprises,” irretrievable sights encountered only through impossible luck, endless patience, and boundless wonder . . . wonder enough to pick them up, to snatch the bright disc hurtling in air, the flash of light across the heavens.
This idea is very strong in me. A man once conducted an experiment in which he scattered pennies near an escalator in Grand Central Station, that hub of moving humanity. No one stopped for them . . . no one. I would have. I always do, if I am awake, if I am thinking at all. I am collecting things: pennies, bright bits, or hidden ones that must be dug out of the mud. Pennies, feathers, strings that connect one moment to the next. . .
2. A window; the Face of God.
I see the most amazing things out of the classroom window on the second floor. I sit next to the window, and it never fails me. Usually it gives me skies. Today, though, I saw two crows wheeling and turning, chasing each other in and out of the multi-leveled concrete edifice of the school, flapping and banking with terrifying alacrity, diving and spinning: one chasing the worm in the other’s beak, wanting it and not getting it. A humorous sight, and, like most of these instances, impossible to point out to anybody. By the time they can say “Where? Where?” and you have pointed futilely, it’s gone. More often it’s the piety of the classroom that restrains me, even when I want to shriek at them to look. That window has shown me skies I could never imagine, skies without end. I turn my head and lo! I am blinded, long grey billows poured across the sky, the mist-green butte in the distance half hidden by a great suspended wisp with rippling blue streamers beyond, huge dark blots of cloud with pale light splashing and catching, and there, through the heavens, the sun sundering it all. I can’t see! I try to look and my eyes squint and water, the light is gushing in; why don’t they notice? I want to lift my shaking finger and cry, Look! Look! The Face of God.
3. A list of things needed for September.
2 sheets vellum
very fine brush
gold leaf
red and orange leaves
bottled India ink
comfrey
4. Flying dream.
It all gets far away very quickly. First the rush of flapping wings, then the sudden lift that feels so altogether different, pushing me into another world. By the time my wings have settled into the downbeat, it’s all quite small: water like a table, creek furrows etched in sand, roadways like minute insect tracks in the dirt. I try to imagine what the map I am seeing would mean to my feet. My eyes run over it like a hand, feeling the smooth ground and the complicated shadows.
5. Lights.
Once I was climbing an indoor stairwell and saw something strange reflected in the glass window of the door at the stairs’ head: horizontal strings of colored beads. I turned around in puzzlement to see the thing itself: bright afternoon sun pushing through the thick square panels of a bank of windows at the curve of the stairs. You can’t see out through them, but the light gets in, and in their rippled diapered surface the sun had formed strings of orange, pink, blue, and yellow beads, which in turn reflected in the door window . . . How strange. It was like unraveling a mystery novel, all alone. Other lights I have seen are the tiny warm spotlight reflected from my plastic watch-face (that was when I wore a watch; I no longer do)—by tilting my wrist I could move and focus it, making the circle intense or scattered—and the warm blob reflecting from the shiny hull of an old Chevy as it drives beside hedge-rows, a quivery light that blips from surface to surface, following playfully along.
Pennies. It’s true they might seem worthless to many, small as they are. And yet . . . and yet. I need them. I keep every one I can get. Without them I will never understand; I see much, yet little, and know less, and I hold on to these finds in the hope that they will eventually add up to something. Are other people not concerned with this? I find it hard to imagine.
6. A list of things needed for January.
blue silk embroidery floss
needles, all sizes
3 yards red wool
boar bristles
garnets
waxed linen thread
brown sugar
beeswax candles
pomegranates
mint
7. Rainbows . . . ah, that is to say, spectrums.
Driving up the flat valley, a truly wondrous sight: a sheer straight column of spectrum—I can’t call it a rainbow because there wasn’t any bow! Technically it was a shaft of light between the clouds, through the rain; a light beam become a roof-beam for the grey ceiling. I imagined a Parthenon with columns like this, all airy and misty and damp. Against the dark clouds the colors were radiant, and a second ghostly column echoed at the left. As I drove, the angle changed, so that the column seemed to be actively following me at some 60 miles an hour, skimming its colored tendril over the hills and emerging from the clouds as a longer and longer segment of an arc, now half a crescent, now more, more, a perfect endless towering arch, miles long and divinely flawless, with the ghost echo racing ahead. First the ghost reached the leading edge of the clouds, then the actual bow, and each in turn faded into the light.
Another rainbow I once collected was at Sahalie Falls off in the eastern hills. The falls themselves were quite beautiful, of course: a great surging of water over an edge, descending in an endless spray and barreling away in a foaming shuddering creek. I felt compelled to go down from the observation point, off the trail to the soggy and verdant banks of the rebellious creek. The bright air was perpetually filled with mist exploding from the water’s impact, and the late afternoon light struck directly down the cleft in the rocks where the water leapt out. All was shimmering, and I was spray-soaked, and glad of it. As I moved closer and closer to the falls, I looked up, and suddenly . . . In front of me, as wide and as tall as the spread of my open arms, so near I thought I could close a hand on its rim and hurl it to the sun, a circular spectrum hovered, a perfect 360°, all unbroken. I stepped to one side, it disappeared; to the other, again invisible. It was a once-only spot on all that hillside, and, like all pennies, it seemed impossible that I had found it, but there it was, hub of the world, endlessly rotating and never moving, like Borges’ mystical Aleph which lies hidden in the corner of a cellar: you stumbled, and there you were, at the point where all reasons, meeting, are meaningless, and all things become one.
8. The Path (a memory).
I am coming to trust you more now, and so there is something I have to tell you, so that you will understand me better. There is something I have been seeking for a long time, though I have long been forgetting it. I have not felt it in so many years. As many wonders as I find in the forests of this world, it would seem that this one is truly lost to me.
It was years ago, when I had given no more thought than any child does to my roamings in the otherworlds of the trees, the waters. We had gone to a summer camp, my best friend and I. There we were never allowed to walk alone in the woods, as we longed to, but only in groups, led by someone of little sight, on small trails in a small forest. In a green, ferny valley, by a narrow creek under maples, the group ate lunch, and my friend and I . . . felt a presence we had never known before, a feeling beyond wonder—magic is too tired a word; I would call it power, forces unknown, potential strength and potential happenings in a realm we had never experienced. At first it was very subtle, more a feeling of mild happiness filtering down through the maple leaves, then gradually a beckoning, a summons towards some wilding truth. We two wanted to go on, of course, feeling this strange draw on our senses; the rest of the group, oblivious, followed. The feeling intensified as we moved along the creek-bed, became almost unbearable, aching for conclusion. It was there, the source of all this, or at least the gateway, and none of the others saw—the fallen trunk of an enormous tree, huge beyond imagination: that was all they saw.
My friend and I wanted to weep. We breathed in silence and saw only him. A King, he was, this great tree—not a God, but a King of otherlands, of the winds and the waters, the movings of the earth. Seeing him, we knew him, knew his power—invisible, yet singing in the air. It was a dream yet not a dream: the greatest dream we had ever lived, the greatest life we had ever dreamed. Here lay an aperture into joy and glory and all the mysteries untold. Here were the suns and the moons, the cold planets moving in their traces, the wild windstorms and the heat-soaked summers of short youthful years—such exquisite secrets that we had till now glimpsed only in brief shining moments like a glinting coin: now that glow was blinding. Here was a being not to worship but to recognize, revere . . . and he was dying, this ageless spirit. The pain in us was beyond knowing. We sensed that he was dying, trying to impart some sacred knowledge before his death—that every answer imaginable lay at the end of the path that led beyond him, into the reeds and out of sight . . .
The others will not let us go. The reeds are wet, they say, sky dark, hour late—turn away. They do not see, and we, of course, cannot explain. Torn away. All that knowledge left unknown. We leave the next day for home, long to go back, never get the chance. The world rings loss, but also promise, for loss awakens us. . .
It did not end there by any means. Something died for us, but in us it also awakened the search that all beings traverse, unfulfilled as it always must be—else, what would remain to search for? That rite of passage filled our summer with all the glorious terror of such awakening: mysterious events broke in amidst the everyday, strange sights and portents suffusing all with secret meaning. The Otherworld had claimed us firmly now, and for two years after. But those went by, and then for a year school parted us, and I scarcely saw my friend; though rejoined later, we had lost something, truly lost: we couldn’t find our way into that mystery anymore. This bothered me for a long time. You worry about it constantly when you’re young: when I grow up, will the really important things still matter to me? Inconceivable as it seems that they would not, you still have this fear . . . and for good reason. Nothing magical had happened to me in years. I still believed, but I wasn’t seeing it.
But I reached a balance once more: I started stalking, walking, collecting pennies. Someone once said that if you take away all the names for God ever known in all the languages of the world, that entity will still be there, whether you notice it or not. That’s what happened: the sacredness diffused, grew less specific, spread out so that I could find it in every blade of grass and every tree, not just in one. I sought without naming . . . am still seeking, not naming; here I am now, and now I will go on. Seeker, seeker, still your lapping tongue . . .
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| "A Tree in Context" by Erika Milo |
9. A list of things found today.
Two blue jay feathers, a cat’s-eye marble dog-prints in mud, cat fur on the sidewalk, the sound a courting starling makes, a small piece of silver cord, the crimson color of a towhee’s eye, irises blooming.
10. Mint.
I am beginning to see that few people really are interested in pennies anymore. In the lush coastal forests I find much to eat: salal berries, which are dry but edible, the furled fiddleheads of ferns, sweet swordgrass, and mint on the pond banks. A friend was amused when I came stomping back one morning with muddy boots and a fistful of mint, and tried to tease me about it. “Maybe you should try some of that, too,” he said, pointing at a random bush. I shrugged. “Salal is all right. I’ve been eating it this weekend.” He gave me a strange look. “Or, uh, that.” “People have told me that dandelion leaves are good to eat, but I never manage to pick them soon enough. They get bitter fast. I hear you can roast the roots, though, like chicory.” He, in amused desperation: “Or, how about some of that tree bark!” “Yes, if you’re hungry, you can eat the inner bark of pine trees, or the sap—that was the first chewing gum, as I understand it.” He gave up and I wandered off munching my mint, amused at having stumped him. Pennies. They’re everywhere; they shine, you either find them or you don’t, and they happen whether you notice them or not. To appreciate them you must have a child’s eye, which is delighted with the shine and does not consider the worth, pocketing it in an instant. To appreciate them you must be ready to get your toes muddy and not worry when people laugh at you. Most people don’t notice them; more, if they do, don’t bother to pick them up at all. What can you buy with a pocketful of pennies?
11. A list of things needed for May.
two or three amber beads
myrrh
rose petals
white eraser
four flicker feathers
2 pints olive oil
No. 2 Staedtler pencils
red egg-tempera
cardboard?
canvas, or marigolds
12. Stalking game scores.
I am playing the stalking game today. Always interesting and always educational, even when fruitless, it occasionally leads me into greater adventures, which are separate and thus not tallied in the score. Only small stuff is counted here. The score so far:
I win
3 hummingbirds
1 chipmunk
2 bushtits
They win
3 robins
2 ducks
1 crow
Conclusions: ducks are hard. Crows are hard. Robins are impossible. I don’t understand how their minds work. Where are they really looking when they cock their heads that way? Chipmunks are easy. Bushtits are too easy. Hummingbirds really don’t care who wins, but they’re still fun.
About ‘winning’ and about the game . . . I am not quite sure what is meant by ‘winning.’ Certainly the point here is to hone skills and to play mind-games with the animals. The game is to follow an animal and get as close to it as possible—merely for that purpose, not to seize or harm or kill—by utilizing the knowledge that animals in general cannot focus on something until it moves. A deer (so I’m told) will mistake you for a tree until you shift, provided the wind is also still. An animal, when alone, operates by moving and then watching, moving and watching. So you walk when it walks, stop when it stops.
So what about ‘winning?’ ‘Winning’ is simply when I feel somehow satisfied that I have succeeded in stalking and perhaps confusing an animal rather than scaring it away. The chipmunk was eating on top of a rock; when I saw it, I froze, and then started the game. It actually had its eye on me the whole time, so I only stopped moving when it stopped eating in suspicion, moved only when it resumed. I got within arm’s length and then it vanished. I counted that a game in my favor. The bushtits were easy; I again got within arm’s-length. Robins, on the other hand, leave me flustered. They give you the impression that they could care less about you and are merely listening for worms, when in fact they are hopping-and-stopping away from you all along. With the hummers it was a little different. I heard one first; I looked for the nearest flowering bushes; I unfocused my eyes to cover the whole area and then zeroed in on the first thing that moved. This is called splatter vision and is highly effective when you’re in wooded terrain and don’t know where to look. Just finding the hummers, I thought, was good enough. I took three that way.
What it really is, then, is counting sight-coup. Among the Plains Indians of long ago, the noblest deed was not to kill your enemy but to count coup on him. This was done with a long stick, often bound in leather and fur, with charms and feathers dangling from it. It consisted of tapping your enemy (lightly!) on the head, and getting away alive. This was done on foot, on horseback, and, in its highest form, by sneaking into the enemy camp at night and counting as many as possible without waking them, and then—the hard part—sneaking out again. Thus you proved your skill and superiority over your enemy.
So, I am counting sight-coup, though it is not a game of superiority but one played between equals. There are no enemies, not even opponents, only players. Who is stalker and who is stalked? Who seeker, who sought . . . I am once more standing at the point where question and answer, circling, are all one . . .
13. Fish, stones.
As I perched on a rise, looking out over the lake, a flash of white caught my eye: a jumping fish. I looked again and another leapt—amazing!—and another—absurd! Finally I realized that I was just seeing white stones skipped across the surface by someone out of sight on the bank. I sighed in disappointment, and then thought abruptly: what makes stones any less wonderful than fish? But they weren’t fish, said the rest of me, just stones. But no, I insisted, look at that. Why ‘just stones?’ A sensation is a sensation, whether or not it is what you expect. What made the sight of white objects hurtling up and splashing down suddenly meaningless? Adult cynicism—it’s only a penny; it’s not real, why pick it up? It may be only a semblance, but a semblance can be just as beautiful, though it bothers our sense of realism, and a sight is no less beautiful for being commonplace. Had I never realized they were stones, I would never have hesitated to count it a penny well caught. Think slowly on this; it is essential. This is the secret of being a child: to receive all things equally, simple or complex, familiar or new, valuable or insignificant. A penny shines! Is it not beautiful? Take it, oh! take it.
14. Heron.
I walked down a path I had never tried before, leading me to the lake. As I rounded the curve of the trail I heard a strange lapping-slapping sound, like something moving in the water: beaver? The sound turned out to be only wind-slapped water against a log, but it immediately warned me that something lay ahead and put me in the stalking-mind. I walked softly around the corner, the pond came into view, and there it was: a great blue heron among the reeds, about forty feet away across the water.
The blue heron is a powerful omen in my family. When I was five we were all sitting on the porch of our old house, which lies about nine miles out of town. Suddenly three or four herons flew overhead in that impossible regal manner of theirs, each one a triple-rigged armada unto itself: stick-legs straight out behind, snake-neck folded back in an incredible ‘s’ with the wicked beak against the soft breast, great wedge-wings pumping somberly, never missing a beat nor entertaining a variation, never dipping nor rising an inch from their steady course. They passed overhead and we marveled, and then one dipped down, turned back, and circled crying directly over our heads. Ten minutes later, my aunt called my mother to tell her their grandmother had died. A powerful and ascendant omen in my family. . .
And here I stood now at the water’s edge, and my heart stopped and I didn’t, couldn’t breathe, rapt in exultation. . . The heron’s head hunched down in suspicion on the wonderful serpentine neck, and I thought, oh, I would do anything for you, anything, I would stalk right through that pond and soak and muddy every inch of me if I could only get close to you! Enraptured, I took an incautious step, quiet but too quick, and off it went, wings too big, gawky neck extended, legs thrusting like a pump handle. The trapped breath rushed out of me in a silent exhalation of gratitude: “Oh thank you!” Thank you for that sight! My throat was stopped with joy, I wanted to cry, and I stumbled away gasping. A sight that beautiful is not something one can endure too often.
Copyright © 2003 by Erika Milo
See Part II
http://www.westbynorthwest.org/artman/publish/article_420.shtml
Eugene native Erika Milo is a writer and artist who loves to explore life's many linkages. Erika writes primarily fantasy. She is inspired by the writings of Annie Dillard, Barry Lopez, Tom Brown, Loren Eiseley, and especially Ursula K. Le Guin. Both of her parents are writers, too.
© Copyright 2000-2004 by West By Northwest.org
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