collaborative storytelling that is equal parts critical and creative
Woods in two seasons
Sophie Ruehr
i. June
With warm eyes and wet mouth, my childhood self tastes the dark greens and pale browns of the summer woods. I pile sticks into fortresses. Know the scents of dirt, pine, salt. Comb the ground for seeds to bury, for flecks of gold. Above, leaves whisper in the wind between rattling of woodpeckers.
Walls of trees keep the scents close, my focus trained on tiny worlds. Leaves border expeditions through marsh and forest, green curtains hiding anything beyond a ten-foot radius. Within those sheltered spheres thrive little worlds – clear water filtering over pebbles, neon mosses glinting under dew, a crisscross of knobbed branches gridding the puffy clouds above. Clethra rubbed into a lather at the side of a pond that smells of tadpoles, wet sand, and fried clams.
Views are rare. When the oaks part to reveal the ocean or a salt marsh, the open space makes me blink, my eyes adjusting to the distance as if stepping into the sun from a dark room. I pause until the horizon is again familiar.
I see myself in my surroundings and measure the world by my limbs. One rough twig to one pinky finger. A mat of lichen to a lock of damp hair. Two dark berries for my moist eyes. My body has its parallels, evolution its preferences.
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ii. February
Without leaves, the land stretches. The grades and crests of hills, the contours of peninsulas meld into each other. Encountering few obstacles, afternoon sunlight streaks the ground, and each oak throws a shadow. Ponds glint through bare trees. Branches curve to outline strips of cirrus. While coy in summer, the landscape begs to be observed when the air turns cool.
With a finger, I trace a map and find that everything is closer together than I thought. The hidden pond and busy road are separated by only a thumb. Sandy beaches lie a fingernail from wooded walks. The scale bar is in feet instead of miles.
Ambles through the woods confirm my cartographic study. The road whose second turn I had never taken leads not to an undiscovered meadow but to the well-trod narrow path. Just beyond the impenetrable swamp swells the old black locust, bark twisting upwards in forked bands. Landmarks of my childhood, once leagues apart and separated by catbrier thorns, huddle in close proximity. The leafy density that created infinity has been exchanged for a vastness that closes in on itself. Visibility negates the possibilities of imagination.
I smell the tangy decay of wood, hear the chanted dirges of mourning doves through the canopy, gaze upon the crashing ocean on stormy days. Yet the tiny worlds of childhood no longer hold my attention. My eyes have cooled with winter, and the landscape collapses, small enough to overlook.
Art by Carrie Klein