All along the rotting Hemlock log by our outhouse, lay heart-shaped rocks of various sizes and shades--slate, quartz, some striped, some variegated, all collected over countless beach walks along the coast of Resurrection Bay.
We find what we look for-- if we expect to meet malice we will stumble upon the dark shadow, if we search for love we will find hearts in the shape of a puddle, a piece of spruce bark, even dog shit can disarm us in the form of a coronary shape.
This can be a cold stormy place, Alaska, brutal in elemental terms, with northern winds and days of darkness and predators that creep silently through the brush.
The eagles don't care about the grief I carry, nor the brown bears, nor the shrews, nor the Devil's Club with its deceptive leaves hiding thorns. The salmon swim home regardless of my tears and the jellyfish die in droves along the shore despite my joy. The rocks slide and the snow falls whether or not I find a reason to smile.
This is Alaska, far bigger than me.
Sometimes I think the sea otters and sea lions show themselves to me as a sign, as a reminder of the world underneath the waves. I want to make their sightings about me, to divine meaning to meditate upon as I walk along the black sand, in search of sea glass and rocks in the shape of an organ that beats whether or not I pay attention to my pulse.
The sun will set four minutes earlier today than it did yesterday. The swallows dive and the ravens call and my body slowly deteriorates along with the Coho and Chinooks. But unlike the salmon, I don't return to the place of my birth to bring my life full circle, instead I plow deeper into the folds of Alaska, building a home on her hillside with the fireweed and salmonberries.
I fall deeper into the tundra, the rocky bays, the mountain ranges that connect ocean and sky, beacons of historical time, both older and younger than I can comprehend, with this brain so small compared to the night sky, the braided river beds, the howl of a lonesome wolf.
I want to somehow embrace it all, write an ode to the wilderness, with a direct line between my life and the underbelly of the natural world--and yet I'm not the protagonist within the natural cycles of life. My thoughts and feelings and actions do not take center stage amidst rainfall, lynx, glaciers, lupine.
Life just happens, all around me, as I decide how to view it, how to receive it, how to respond.
So I look for hearts wherever I can find them, take pictures of the ones I can't bring home, the clouds, puddles, large pieces of driftwood, like the memories from my New England childhood that travel with me no matter how far I roam.
I fill my pockets with rocks, broken shells, glass, and lay them out along the once giant Hemlock that graced this land long before I decided to love it. Long before my footsteps took me here, where the wind doesn't know my name but sings tales of loss and redemption, whether or not I choose to listen.
I’m touched ......and a fan, more than ever....
Posted by: Sheila Morrow | 07/16/2019 at 07:30 PM
Thank you Sheila!
Posted by: Christy | 07/17/2019 at 02:37 PM
*HEART*
(I confess that I miss our New England home sometimes so much that it breaks my heart. But the West...)
Posted by: Greta | 07/18/2019 at 05:06 PM
I'm with you Greta! I sometimes wish I grew up in Ak so all my friends and family would be here with me but there is so much about New England I love as well...
Posted by: Christy | 07/22/2019 at 11:12 AM
Christy, this is poetry in prose form! So beautiful... and so true. Thank you.
Posted by: Linda | 07/29/2019 at 03:38 PM