They Return

The monarchs are returning. Last week, there was one. This week- three. The ground is graced with their playful, drifting shadows. They bask in the sunlight, flutter in the breeze, drift like glorious, living leaves.

They come back every autumn, traveling hundreds of miles, born in the mountains and returning mysteriously, year after year, to the land of their grandparents.

Three generations have passed since they left last spring. What if we measured our days in a butterfly's lifespan?

How do they know where to go? What guides them? They must go, they will go. The butterflies know, we merely wonder.

It is our gift. We can stand in awe, watching them gather, dripping from branches, orange and black wings radiant in the sunlight. They bring us peace, tranquility. What do we have to offer? This incredible journey, this struggle and sacrifice. This survival. This victory.

We stand witness to an incredible world.

The monarchs are returning. Let us celebrate.

Here they will rest. Here they will wait out the storms and the cold. Where do butterflies go in the rain?

Here they will create new life. Here they will die. And in the spring, when the snow begins to melt, their children will leave, called back to the mountains.

And we will wait for their return.

This is How I Die

"This is how I die."

My friend, Jen, has this mantra. In the middle of a perilous task, this runs on repeat through her head. This is how I die, this is how I die.

I'd never thought of it that way. Then I did.

I had a project. We were sailing near the coast of Africa, headed to Senegal. Warm winds filled our sails, orange cliffs graced the shore. We needed- we wanted- more canvas. My job was to measure the distances, cut and splice the lines, hoist the sails into place, hank them onto the stays, and attach the lines I'd prepared. For two weeks, I was a rigger on a 210 foot full-rigged ship. I was honored. I was excited. I was, maybe... just a bit... in over my head.

Photo Credit: Angela Deluce

Ship culture is hard. Humility is a sparse commodity in the sailing world. Bravado and swagger hold sway; asking for help can be a sign of weakness. It's not a emotionally open space. Feelings are a sign of weakness. Confidence is king.

Sometimes, sailors are fools.

But no one can accuse us of not being brave. Cowards, we are not.

It's not a healthy ideology. If you don't know, figure it out. We become ingenious, perhaps, but we waste a lot of time on pride.

So there I was, wasting time on the African coast. How do you measure the height of the mast? Well, surely somewhere on board there must be a schematic of the ship? I asked a few of my crew mates, but was loathe to waste anyone's time. What mattered, a day of effort for me, if I could avoid asking fifteen minutes of the captain?

And so, I built a kite string. Line wrapped around a dowel with me as the kite. I claimed a student for the project, left her on deck with the spool in her hand, and set out for the top of the mast.

The first step around the shrouds is always the moment I remember how tenuous this all is. We sway on a vast sea, and, as I climb onto the rail, I depart the protection of the ship. Now, it is merely my hands clinging tight to the cables and my feet precariously balanced on shifting footing that keep me alive. I take a moment to thank my body for its strength, recognize the danger. To fall into the sea is nearly certain death. We practice man overboard on every boat, but we also know how hard it is to find someone. A tiny head amidst the swell vanishes in seconds.

I sense this danger, and I embrace it. Every human life is always in danger. Our hold is always precarious. In sailing, we simply live the metaphor. I love remembering that my body is powerful.

Then up I climb, as my student assistant lets out the string. I weave it through the entangling lines, along the ladder-like shrouds, up through platforms set along the mast, bobbing and swaying as we rock to and fro on our journey south. From up here, the ship looks small on a vast, sparkling ocean. The cliffs are dwarfed by shadowy mountains that stand sentinel beyond. I am just a speck of madness, clambering around on a waving stick.

The motion is greater near the top. I'm now on a side-to-side seesaw, still clinging on for dear life, and still climbing ever upward, bringing my string behind me.

The saying on ships is, one hand for the ship, one hand for yourself. We have harnesses too, and we clip and unclip to move around. But in the end, your safety is in your own hands... or at least, hand, while the other is busy with the ship's business.

Finally at the top, I cling, monkey-like, to the tip of the mast with my thighs. With one hand, I weave the string past a final entangling line, with the other hand I cling by fingertips to whatever I can find that seems sturdy. The ship heaves from port to starboard and I feel like an ant on a fussy baby's rattle, like a ball on the end of an antenna.

In my mind, Jen's words. This is how I die.

No.

This is how I live.

What the Blackberry Said...

Plants.

They've always drawn me in, entranced me.

The first plants I learned were fennel and lemonade berry. Walking along the road at seven-years-old, I recognized fennel's wispy leaves, and was all too happy to take a bite, heedless of exhaust and dog pee. Lemonade berry, a big, bushy Southern California plant, was resplendent with mouth puckering fruit at the right time of year. Lemonade berry and fennel were my childhood friends, one tart, one like licorice, treats in plain sight if you knew how to look.

My next love was blackberry, thick in the canyons, twining about itself, seductive berries plump and shining next to vicious thorns. I could pick for hours, and head home with blood prickling along my arms, victorious and wild. The joys of the harvest.

When I moved North, I met the trees. No easy food to share, they instead offered peace, beauty, and safety. I drank in their presence, danced among the red-gold rain of their autumn leaves, learned the scent of bay and pine, craned my neck to greet redwood, lost myself in oak branches. These were the guardians I'd lacked in the land of eternal summer. The landscape naked without these sentinels, forest nearly as mythical as unicorn.

Last summer, I spoke with a blackberry. A car barreled by, loud and unheeding. I flinched and apologized.

It happens all the time.

Darkness gathered around us, two beings locked into a moment. Thorns held me in place.

It was fine before you got here. Now, we can't breathe, the water is poisoned. 

but

WE'RE NOT GOING ANYWHERE.

The blackberry released me and, shaken, I stepped back. The plants had never spoken before. I had not expected anger.

Maybe it was just my own.