OXBOWS
Meandering in a canoe is an art of silence, contemplation, and consideration. It is a practice where one dips into thoughts, resonance, and presence. Existence is a type of acknowledgment. Acknowledgment is a type of validation. Validation is a type of justice.
Writing the Land—what does that mean? I needed to find out because just those words initiated a resonance that pushed memories to the forefront of my consciousness. I recollected the sound of my father’s voice telling stories in his slow and metered west central mountain Maine dialect, choosing words and holding the space between them for intentional tonal affect. The silence between each parsed syllable—a language in itself.
It is in this space that I close my eyes and feel the presence, hear the stories echoed, of my dad and his dad, Grampa; great uncles; aunts; and local folks that still worked in the woods or still farmed, people of the land.
The land has its stories too. Stories caught in pockets of trauma and industrialization. Failed and faddish progress within the short-sighted colonization progress that has spanned the centuries, perhaps beginning with the Norse, Vikings, exploring in trade via Gulf Stream currents. Travelers. Wind and water share the same language.
But I am talking about writing the land, and how does one write the land? Where do we all come from if not from the land somewhere? I wanted to go home. My journey is always about going home, and I wanted to return to the thick Maine forests, waterways, and mountains—rewilding my soul. I wanted to smell black bear again, their oils thick and heavy with winter fat. I kept thinking about that Eastman’s children’s book, Are You My Mother?
Labor Day weekend 2021 I canoed into Boar’s Nest and its rustic cabin located on the West Branch of the Narraguagus and its 600+ acres of wilderness. It was a solo stay for a few days.
I made offerings of gratitude to the land and creatures for allowing me to be there. I introduced myself, my name, who I am. I stated my intentions, my purpose. Professionally, I specialize in working with folks who have experienced trauma in their lives. I am also a trauma survivor. PTSD is a part of my life’s journey and professional awareness. The power of the natural world is what saves me, and it’s what I share with others when I can. I was at Boar’s Nest for myself. It had been a long time since I had been able to isolate in a cabin to recollect my dad and beloved Grampa’s Barker Place in New Vineyard, Maine.
Dowsing is something that I inherited from my ancestors, and the Boar’s Nest land began to speak. I filled endless journal pages. When the land knows that you are listening, be prepared for the stories that she will tell. Perhaps that’s why I needed to be the one there, because I understood that trauma events are things that are done to us. The river spoke of log drives, how a river dies from heavy bark sloughing and lying at the bottom, the water turning reddish brown too thick with contaminates to oxygenate, how the salmon and alewives receded into myth.
The land began to tell of beauty. Resilience in the truth-telling and how spoken word validates both life’s miracles and traumas. Both equally significant in healing, repairing, or initiating life-bearing relationships. And so, I wrote what the land stirred up from the river’s bottom, from the tall grasses at water’s edge where the deer slept, and black bear had padded flat. I remembered that our Mother the Earth has been harmed. Her children have been harmed, and she too is a living being often exploited, and abused. What we do to our Mother the Earth, we do to ourselves. She began to jangle my consciousness into comprehension: eco violence, domestic violence, social violence, sexual violence—all bear an exploitative root. It is easy to invisible-ize someone, disappear something, or someone, when one feels they can overpower in whatever way they feel privileged to implement.
Trauma truths can become a yoke if we succumb to the thought that trauma is who we are. Or, trauma truths can become a source of profound strength, and resiliency—this is what the power of the land offers. Trauma is something that has happened to us. Writing the Land is Giving Voice to the many beings that may have been deemed less than, or inanimate. I know from how and where I was raised that the natural world is vibrant with life, words, intelligence, wisdom, and wildness. Our Mother the Earth holds dear all of her children. As with any mother, she grieves the violent loss of all her children young or old.
Writing the Land: be ready for the words that tired Mothers can speak. Be ready to sit with her: remember, console.