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April 13, 2006 ~ Touching Trees
Thursday.
Bellwort. Solomon's seal. Dogwood. Squawroot. Pennywort. Anemones. Star chickweed. Bloodroot. Fleabane. Azalea. Violets. Fiddlehead ferns. Toothwort. Spring beauties. Cohosh and trillium getting ready to bloom.
I name them as we come upon them, and Grove babbles up at me, cooing and burbling. He loves to stare at the trees, their dark forms against the bright sky. Sometimes he opens his mouth to taste the wind. He answers the birds when they call, and stares in wonder when the trees moan against each other. He likes the feel of hemlock needles against him, but protested when I failed to hold back a holly.
Some days we have Rose or Monty with us. Some days we go just the two of us. But we go every afternoon if we can, if it's not pouring rain.
His warm little body presses against mine in the sling, and I sweat in the sunlight. He's getting so very heavy. But then I notice how each of his little sighs brush against my arm, and that tiny soft whisper against my skin makes my heart sing. I drink some water, tilting my head back with the bottle, and he watches me with that "one of these days I'm going to figure out what you're up to" expression. We continue on.
Today, a swallowtail passed him by, and he started and watched it, awed, as it swooped past his head and landed on a wild rose vine. Transfixed, he stared as its wings opened and closed, opened and closed.
My midwives had ordered, "No exercise until at least six weeks postpartum. Give your body time to heal." But oh! I was going crazy by three weeks! I needed the wind's breath on my face, trees, sunlight and all the comforts of the winter woods. I needed time to myself in walking meditation. Hiking, the closest thing I have to church, my touch of the sacred. At five weeks, I finally snapped. One cold January day, I snuck out to the trails with Grove bundled up in the sling, and I didn't look back. All was right with the world again.
A few days back I had stopped next to a tree to take a drink, and Grove reached his hand out to that hulking dark shape. I leaned closer for him, and he laid his hand on the trunk and brushed down it, his expression serious and grave, contemplative. Rough bark under tiny fingers. Satisfied, he withdrew his hand and looked up at me. "Oooh," he said with finality, as a conclusion rather than an exclamation. My son he is indeed.
Since he was born, I've spent less than one half hour away from him. He's my constant companion, always either in my arms or nearby. This is part necessity--I am both food and comfort for him. But honestly, I don't mind at all. What better pastime than watching him discover the world? People always warned me, "You'll have to give up most everything you love when you have kids." But oh, that is not true. Sure, we can't just up and go to a movie or a fancy restaurant (couldn't afford either of those anyway), but those are not essential to me to begin with. No, Grove has become an essential part of this life that I love, not a barrier to it. We share in joys and wonders, whether they be as small as a butterfly or as big as a tree, as simple as a book read out loud or as complex and thrilling as sixty wolves howling together. This is my life, little one, and I'm so glad you're here to share it.
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