The blue jay is screaming in delight at the feast of worms I will turn over in the next few moments. He bobs his head up and down, greeting me, before hopping in my direction. Blue jays are obnoxious, and I am constantly waving my hand at them when I catch them bullying the tufted titmice. As my hand rake turns up the roots of garlic mustard, so also does it turn up thick pink worms. I carefully fish them out of the tangled mess of dirt and plants and then walk a few paces away before placing them on the ground. I’m giving them a fighting chance, but I’m delighting in the prospect of snacking with my feathered acquaintances. In their presence, I am no one. I am not patient, nor customer, mother nor wife. I am not a failed daughter, a friend left behind, a disappointing employee, or the aging woman clinging to girlhood.
I am simply a monster among the creatures moving dirt around.
So it’s no surprise that Mr. Bluejay should bully his way first. But I am in their holy house, so I shut up and dig.
Months before, from the passenger seat window, I settled the growing car sickness by staring out the window. For miles and miles along the interstates and highways, I saw forest floors thick with clusters of prickly shrubs. The heat dampened the muggy air, and craggly branches further insulated the already miserable heat. My forehead pressed the glass, and I imagined a swooping Carolina wren swallowing a Japanese barberry seed like a tiny Happy Meal.
Does he know that it contains less than 1% of his daily nutritional value? Does he care?
He doesn’t have an insurance company dictating his tiny little medical journey, but still far worse as we speed by the ruin of his home. His sanctuary was engulfed in thickets, and then a purgatory of killing machines on hot black tar pavement. He and I are not so different.
When we are back home, I wander beyond the treeline of my yard. Out of all the land in this burning country, I picked this acre and loved her at first sight. It was from a car window, long before home shopping, that I first caught a glimpse of what would eventually be my family home. We were on the way to some jam band weekend small-town festival, and were waiting for cars to filter out from the back road onto the property just around the corner where the festival was taking place, when I first saw my front porch. It was sweet. It was simple. It was within walking distance of this damn jam band festival. I felt an unexplained tug that yanked me, Gable, and our relator, through the front door in 2014. Gable and I laughed and exclaimed that we had finally found our house.
And though it took years, this land knew I was coming. I’m sure she knows who will precede me, but she chose me for a purpose. She knew that when I wandered to the babbling brook behind our house, I’d see the damage and know what to do. She knew when I ascended the hill, the surgeon had arrived with a hand rake for a scalpel and snippers for trimming the overgrown infections. I wonder if she knew how I would move into her chest, dig out her invasive ductal carcinoma, and rip the poisoned vein-like roots from her body. The mycorrhizal fungi of her root system told the whole forest floor that I was coming to avenge her.
I’ve never wondered if I’m supposed to be here; I’ve always known. In these shadow days, her earth soaks up my tears and dampens the dirt for the birds to excavate. They chirp with encouragement as I wipe my nose on my sleeve. A wren zips across the clearing before singing her morning notes, and I find I’ve been cradled in the roots of the hornbeam tree this whole time.
I stay until I feel her dramatic breath sharply woosh through the newly freed trees at the end of a long day. No longer choked by the brambles formerly tied in her throat, the exhaled wind can be felt through the whole forest floor.
I smirk at her parting gift. Breathe, mother, breathe.
Kathlyn Ramsey Moore 