Whatever wisdom I would find, I knew, would grow out of the land. I trusted that, and that it would reveal itself in the presence of well-chosen companions.
– Arctic Dreams, Barry Lopez

Dear Friends,

I’ve written often in these letters about a place near my home that I spend a great amount of time in: the meadow across the road, and the hills and the stretch of the North Branch River that wind along its edges. For the past six years, I’ve observed this land and the living things within it, hoping that I might establish some kinship with this place. I’ve walked its paths with beloved human and non-human companions, shared discoveries, held hands, listened for owls, raged and ranted at the darkness, and laughed in the light.

The land instructs me with patient practice and attention. Only through an investment of time and repetition and slowness have I begun to see past obvious superficialities. I’ve discovered patterns of cyclical change at different timescales, seasonal and diurnal.

There is the emergence of growing things in early spring through summer, rising up one after the other: bloodroot, trillium, ramps, ferns, milkweed, vetch, phlox, goldenrod, aster. Follow the sequence from bud to flower to seed. The browning and wilting of green things shows summer winding down in preparation for winter. Find burdock burrs catching on my sleeve, or matted in the dog’s fur. Brittle ferns like brown bones stand upright in the field. Leaves turn. A pointillist wave of ochres, umbers, yellows, reds, and oranges appear, and in an instant dissipate in the wind. Only sticks and conifers remain in dull tones.

Then comes the heavy blanket of snow, if unpredictably, to bury vegetation and hardened seeds into the earth so that they may emerge again. The snow will capture like a snapshot the tracks of voles, rabbits, weasels, and deer. Juncos and cardinals will drop in to make tracks as well. Nighttime strolls will become more manageable as the yellow moon washes the world in shimmering snow light.

By day, I notice the way the sun travels across the field and how I intentionally pace my walks to maximize its solar gain. Slow down or speed up, depending. See how the microclimate fluctuates the temperature depending on the vegetation, the topography, or the hour. In this season, I track the arc of the sun’s path across the sky, dipping lower and lower as we in the north tilt back toward winter, as if to lay down in the dark.

This land holds memory. In the exuberant throes of winter, walking with numb fingers and toes, I remember the touch of the meadow’s warm breath and the smell of river water on my arm as it dries. A blast of psychic power. In summer’s wilting mid-day heat, I remember the sound of subzero snow creaking under my boots and the perfect aura of bundled body heat against the cold air that freezes my nostrils and beard.

But is this wisdom? To be determined. I do know that I am changed by these interactions with this land. I do discern things that were previously hidden to me. I have formed bonds with the land, and, within its ecology, I have deepened relationships with many well-chosen companions. That feels like a kind of wisdom.

Enjoy the turning,

Jeremy