Reading the newspaper and Heather Cox Richardson’s newsletter the other morning, a memory from 1988 surfaced suddenly. My 11-year old son and I had gone to spend part of the summer in Flagstaff, Arizona, while I attended an institute on teaching English as a 2nd language. When the institute’s organized overnight rafting trip on the San Juan River in southern Utah was cancelled, we decided to go anyway. It was a magical trip with many beautiful moments. On the second day, the guide brought us to a deep swimming hole on the river, one that had a natural whirlpool in which we could float round and round. He showed us the one specific spot where we had to kick out in order to escape its pull. Elsewhere, the circular current was too strong.

I watched for awhile. Everyone seemed to escape easily. Finally I swam out to the whirlpool, slipping into its irresistible pull. I enjoyed the experience. As a sort of go-with-the-flow kind of person, it was easy to let the current take control of my body. But, when I’d had enough, I remember an increasing sense of being “trapped.” Did I postpone trying to escape for fear of failure? Did I try several times but miss the exact spot? All I can remember is the anxiety I felt. Eventually, of course, I did kick out at the right point, safe and sound. There was never any real danger. Why had I felt so anxious?

I guess that memory surfaced this morning because it is so easy for me to get caught up in the maelstrom of current crises. How do I kick out of the current so that I am free to swim for shore?

On so many occasions, it is the more than human world that reaches out to save me.

I had long been in love with the kingfishers I’ve encountered in story, poem & picture, but I had never seen one. Then, several weeks ago, something happened. The first time, I caught just a quick glimpse of a white-throated (and perhaps crested?) blue bird out of the corner of my eye, just as he took to the air. I was pretty sure it wasn’t a blue jay. Then could it be…? As if to answer my question, the bird circled & circled overhead, displaying his long beak and calling out a great rattling cry. A quick check of the song on google confirmed my hope. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sboXiZ4CIIc

A few days later I got a better look at the kingfisher before he departed. Once more the distinctive rattle again & again, an ancient music that seemed to lift me up as if I, too, had wings — no longer trapped in the human maelstrom but free to dance to his ancient song.

Then two weeks ago I was walking my little dog down past the maintenance workshop, heading for a trail that my husband & a friend had made through the patch of woods here. I felt, more than saw, a movement ahead of us, just at the edge of the woods.

Coyote. He stopped and turned to look at us. My dog stayed quiet. (Did he recognize a potential predator? or was he reacting to the deep stillness within which I was suddenly enfolded?)

Coyote and I studied at each other. After a time, he sat down. ….A bit longer and he seemed to have relaxed even more, enough to lick his nether regions. A loud disturbance behind us caused him to stand and take one step towards the trees, but he soon realized it was just a small ATV hauling mulch. No threat. Something he’d seen many times. He sat down again. We continued to look at each other. After a time, he lay down and stretched out in the sun. And still we both stayed — relaxed, at home. After a while, my old legs tired. I checked my watch and was surprised to find that well over half an hour had passed. Oh, if I’d had a chair I’d have stayed until he was through with his sunbath! What a magical encounter! I was, quite literally, enchanted by his presence, by his gaze. Just when I needed him….. A gift….

It was very different from the encounter I’d had with a coyote on our llama farm in Virginia a number of years ago (one I’ve probably already written about on this blog). There, coyotes denned on the ridge behind our house and often filled the night with the wild flames of their songs. I never saw them but often saw their scat down in the lower woods and in the tree farm across the road.

Then one evening, as I was heading up our path through the woods to the compost heap, I heard a subdued rustling in the bushes and turned, expecting the usual deer. Slowly, deliberately, a coyote stepped out of the woods next to me and stopped. We looked long & long into each other’s eyes from just a few feet away. Then, apparently satisfied, he turned and slid once more into invisibility amongst the trees knowing perhaps that he with his wildness had somehow dominated our brief silent conversation.

This meeting with a rural coyote was so unlike the recent one with the more relaxed urban coyote who was used to humans and no doubt well aware of his protected status within the city. The coyote I saw here in Greensboro was certainly not domesticated but he seemed to lack the sharper wild edge of the other. Still, I cannot help but admire the urban coyotes, wily tricksters that they are. I think it was Gavin Van Horn who wrote that in Chicago, coyotes have learned how to read the traffic lights to avoid being hit by a car. Whether in the city or in the forest, it is an honor to live among such beings.

And, whether with kingfisher or coyote, each of these encounters kicked me out of the human maelstrom of despair and reminded me of who I am: one being inextricably interwoven with all other beings — those we call animate and those beings (like rocks, air, water, fire) whose lives seem more hidden from us; an active participant of the exquisite & ever-changing fabric of the Earth community, indeed of the Cosmos.

In the Nov. 23 post on his excellent “Into the Deep Woods” blog, James Roberts wrote:

“I’ve recently discovered the term Horizon Goal, which I’m finding helpful. Horizons, of course, are unreachable, so the term is koan-like. Horizons make for unachievable goals, but the journey towards them is where the work (and adventure) is. My own horizon goal is this: to create art and books which celebrate and defend the wild. I hope to do this for the rest of my life. There is a Masai proverb I remind myself of constantly: If the lion has no praise singer, the tale of the hunt will always be told by the hunter. I’ve printed it in several of my publications. These past few weeks have been a time of dread for those of us who orientate ourselves to wild places. The governments of the world seem to be slipping into the hands of borderline lunatics with no interest whatsoever in correcting the imbalances we’ve imposed on earth. The conferences dedicated to climate change and protecting nature seem to be run by those who seek to do the opposite. So it feels important that even quiet people like myself praise lions, snow leopards, spirit bears, river otters, blue herons, red-tailed bumblebees, luna moths – all the myriad of species and the wild places they occupy – as loudly as we can, while we can. It’s a way to share the wonder and mystery that surrounds us always. And it’s a way out of despair.”

I finally “finished” Faces of the Forest: Community just before Thanksgiving. I don’t know whether it communicates what I’d hoped, but it is time to let make its own way into the world. May my goal be not a “finished piece” but a walk ever toward some unattainable horizon.

As Jame Roberts said, simply an attempt of share the wonders we experience in the world is another way out of despair.

How do you find your way out of despair? How do you remember who you are?