Learning to Read

Through the strange gymnastics of life, by the propulsion of seemingly random somersaults and flips, I landed without fanfare -- nay, without any applause at all -- on a mountaintop in a rugged abode, feeling strongly that this sudden and unusual placement was nothing short of a great mistake.

Anyone looking at me, after all, could see the magnitude of the error.  If they couldn't, I worked hard to ensure that they did.  I polished and buffed the gleaming marble chip on my shoulder, that sure sign of privilege (whereby dirt is outlawed); that reliable reminder of old honors, craved approval, and now, odious misunderstanding.

"Thou, Turquoise, of all beings," discriminating eyes would question, "how comest thou to live amongst mice, moles, snakes, and -- bears?  Why didst thou leave the trusted conglomerations of dryer vents, those picturesque, tidy arrangements of homes and lawns exuding fabric softener, pesticides, and all the fragrant toxins that make life hospital-sweet?"

"Perhaps," I would stammer, "because they give me -- migraines?"

Not good enough. This was not poetic.  This was not even prose.  This was so far beyond the pale, it failed to qualify even as "nonfiction."  The crowds were displeased.  No awards would be forthcoming.  One vocal objector even went so far as to declare, "The old Turquoise has died."

Indeed.  ("Felled by detergents and deodorizers.") 

My objectors having lost all interest in me, my fading suburban self was left to ponder, dumbly, the clicking of crickets, the chanting of cicadas, the grazing of deer, the shadows of flying hawks, the lumbering of bears, and the silence of the trees.

Each new morning, I'd rub my head and wonder, anew, exactly how and why I'd arrived here (something about not having been able to breathe properly -- having had to run, literally, out of our more suburbanized house to gasp some inhalable air -- but why, why, why?).  I rubbed my head in perplexity each new morning for almost five years straight.  Until . . .

One tender Spring day, the sun beaming on my face (as it had so often done "in the old days") allowed me to remember how it used to be.  Suddenly, I was "back there."  Time stopped for me, and a few moments of Eternity seeped in:

I remembered frolicking in the woods as a child, hunting for new and uncharted paths, digging for colonial treasures, scavenging for Indian arrowheads, devouring the history of the Lenni Lenape in the public library, feeling at one with the sun and the earth and the trees  . . .  and never, ever feeling afraid.

So confident was I of God's love and the possibility of miracles, I once took my cat into the woods, perched the two of us on my favorite fallen tree, and tried to make her talk.  If God could make this breathtaking forest, this wondrous day shimmering in green and gold, surely He could make my cat talk.  The question was, would He?

In His Wisdom, God chose to let my cat remain silent that day.  In that correspondingly docile wisdom peculiar to children, I understood.  Perhaps I wasn't worthy of this favor, perhaps my cat had nothing to say.  Or perhaps God preferred to keep my golden tabby cloaked in feline mystery.  I would continue to love this furry creature and to wonder what she thought, and the world would continue to be a resplendent garden made for a child.

My adult self breathed deeply as Eternity faded into the present.  Blanketed in peace, I listened to the the birds, felt the warmth of the sun on my arms.

Once again, it was all so . . . good.

Like Helen Keller, who in a burst of inner light, suddenly realized that meaning was being conveyed to her, that there was a message in her hand to be deciphered, so did I begin to realize that God has a message for me -- right here.

Now, when I awaken to the splendor of that orange fireball rising over the hills, I no longer rub my head in confusion.  My mind, instead, rushes to grasp what God has written to me today, this very morning, on this blessed mountain -- with trees, hawks, bears, and sky.