The Buddha practiced walking meditation on the banks of the Neranjara River. That muddy water is just an out of focus memory now—years since I forded the warm, shallow river by foot on my little pilgrimage to the Mahakala Caves. These days I practice on the banks of the Truckee River, which is cold and clear and far away as can be.
There’s a path through a patch of wild roses that I like to pace. No flowers this time of year, but a good path— well worn— between two ponderosa pines.
My foot rocks from heel to toe in a slow arc. Sun on the front of my legs, the back of my legs are cold. Sun on the back of my legs, the front of my legs are cold.
I tell myself, “when walking just walk,” but I was raised by devoted birdwatchers.
It’s always something. I hear a red-tailed hawk cry above me and try not to look up. Try not to look for her shadow either. I hear a jay and try to discern—scrub or Steller’s? Twenty steps, turn, twenty steps, turn.
Mid-turn I glance up, and my eye catches on two mergansers swimming upstream. Their heads are below the surface, scanning for something good to eat. They are joined by a third, and overhearing the little barks of their private conversation gives me a thrill.
How can it be enough to make the mental note, “hearing?” How can I resist running upstream with them? I need to know what else they might have to say.
The resolution is to spend more nights outside.
The crescent moon paired with Saturn. Awoken just once by coyotes. Dreams of magpies.
In the morning, a rainbow between us and the Carson Range. Wild horses out on the dunes. Walking meditation on the trails packed down by their hooves.
Fiction: The Color Purple by Alice Walker, The Monkey Wrench Gang by Edward Abbey, The Overstory by Richard Powers, Tevye the Dairyman by Sholem Aleichem
Non-fiction: Being Mortal: Illness, Medicine and What Matters in the End by Atul Gawande; Into Thin Air: A Personal Account of the Mount Everest Disaster by Jon Krakauer; White Trash: The-Year Untold History of Class in America by Nancy Isenberg
Poetry: Odes to Lithium by Shira Erlichman
This summer Peregrine accepted my poem “How I will explain the rape to my daughter” for publication. This fall they printed Issue XXXIII without sending proofs for contributors to look over. They made two errors in the formatting of my poem, interrupting the consistency and distracting from the power of the last line. I was heartbroken and embarrassed to share the piece, but not sharing wasn’t an option. It means so much to have the poem out in the world where other survivors of trauma can read it. I want to share the properly formatted version here:
The mistakes made by the editors of Peregrine pressed me to closely examine and consider that last line of the poem. Before submitting the poem in January of 2019, I had made a quick but significant edit to the last line. The intention was to make the poem more emotionally accessible, but in retrospect, I think I did myself a disservice. This is the poem with the original and perhaps more honest last line:
The tortuous and confusing truth of the matter is that in my years of healing, I never tried to unlearn my love for the man who hurt me. It’s not an easy thing to admit, even to myself. But it’s much more complex than any of that. So I want to have this version out in the world too, for those of you that might understand.
Fastidiously organizing our recycling, schlepping reusable shopping bags, carpooling, eating less meat— it’s not enough. It’s tremendously important, but it’s not enough.
Facing that fact is so daunting that it sends many of us into a sort of paralyzing climate anxiety. We’re scared that we’re powerless, we’re scared that it’s too late. We try not to think about whether or not we ought to have children— the droughts and food shortages they might have to endure. We push the nightmarish visions out of our minds and try to carry on.
I’m happy to say that some of that anxiety was alleviated for me this week thanks to the Climate Strike. Even in this outpost of the American West, I’m surrounded by people who want to protect this earth as much as I do. And then reading the news and seeing the crowds in New York, Hamburg, and Melbourne. Relief washed over me. Millions and millions of people standing up to save what we all have in common— our home. We have the numbers to induce systematic change on a global scale. Saving our planet is possible.
That being said, it’s still a choice that we all have to make on a personal level— something new to add to our daily regimen of eco-habits. We need to pressure government organizations and corporations into regulating emissions and divesting from fossil fuels. We need to reach out to our representatives. Remind them that their job is to serve us. Meet your city officials. Instigate change on a local level. Vote for the planet. Set an example for your family and friends.
Climate anxiety, like any anxiety, can be incapacitating. Climate anxiety, like any anxiety, can also be overcome.
Only the sphinx moths admired the flowers more than me. I watched dozens upon dozens feast.
I spent the first week of July getting acquainted with the Jemez Mountains of northern New Mexico. The purpose of the trip was to visit my brother’s new home outside of Santa Fe and spend my days in airconditioned art museums. But the best kind of love catches us by surprise, and I spent my days in the Jemez instead. I admired the high-walled canyons, waterfalls, and hot springs, but the crown jewel was surely Valles Caldera.
A relatively new addition to the National Park Service, Valles Caldera National Preserve is the site of a collapsed volcano, now a huge crater, which has filled in with montane meadows and ponderosa forests over the last million or so years. This time of year, the meadows are lush with snowmelt. A herd of cow elk and their new—and still white speckled—calves splash in the East Fork of the Jemez River. Rocky mountain iris blooms with abandon. Monsoon storms almost never miss their three o’clock cue.
Fires in 2011 and 2013 burned two-thirds of the Preserve. Now all that blazes is the sun, which is relentless at 9,000 ft. The landscape of charred trunks offers no respite. Flickers trill, cicadas scream, pleasant blue fungus beetles buzz and thump as they collide with a human body. Not to mention the mews of cow elk, the croaks of ravens overhead. The loudness of the recovering forest is dramatic and gorgeous as a Stravinsky ballet.
“How I will explain the rape to my daughter” will appear in the Fall 2019 issue of Peregrine Journal.