Emerging from darkness

Bu ignores my call as he perches on the fern-laden bank rising from the swampy pool that he has just exited. He studies the now-still surface toward its center. I follow his gaze across the water, slick with pollen. It appears almost black, this tannic soup of steeped roots and dissolving stumps. But there, where Bu’s canine interest rests, I find a fist-sized form emerging from the surface and just below, a disc-like shape glowing with soft reflected light. Four paddles project from the sides of the snapping turtle suspended there, silently taking air.

Bu rises and we resume the trail that first brought us through a jubilant meadow abundantly studded with frothy grasses and gorgeous groves of flowering forms—purple danglers, yellow spikes, miniature white stars and an occasional baseball-sized puff resembling a giant dandelion. Butterflies ply milkweed stalks, then rise and toss on a tepid breeze.

My tendency is always to attempt naming. What is that flower? Why is it here? Is it native to this place, or an alien species imported from afar? One glance at Bu’s blithe fuzzy face, speckled with seeds from his carefree forays through the meadow’s furrows, reminds me to let it go, to simply be with the blooms and bugs and birds.

We enter a forested grove where white pine scents the air with resins reminiscent of frankincense. A fire swept this area several weeks ago and its meandering path produced mottled zones of charred earth and blackened tree trunks. Abutting these, fantastical greens of new fern growth declare their effort to triumph such destruction.

I will tell my sister, Amy, about all of it, including the intense experience that transpired on my trip home the other night from the rehabilitation center where she is struggling to reclaim her life after being thrown from a horse. It is night and I am rounding a curve along a country road. Suddenly, something flutters into my path; its odd movements give it the appearance of a plastic bag blown by a breeze. I swerve slightly, just enough to miss what emerges in the shape of an owl. Its ashen wings knife the night as it lands on the blacktop.

The part of me that wants to know what type of owl it is suddenly stirs. It’s as if I crave some certainty in the swirl of unanswerable questions. What will Amy’s life be like now? Will we tackle another mountain trail together, like we did in New Hampshire and Vermont, both times pushing the boundaries of our abilities? Will we sing in sister-harmony once more as we finger-pick our way through our collection of favorites? Will light flow from a scene she is studying, into her eyes and through her brain, fingers and brush, to emerge onto the canvas in a wash of understanding?

No one can say.

Amy has been very slow to open her eyes. “Too bright,” she says, of the light. We peer in through the lidded cracks. Come on back, we encourage her. There’s much you will want to see. Let us take you to the meadow where the bees bear pollen satchels against the sun; see the silent snapper rise toward the surface glow; watch the ghostly owl scour the darkness for sustenance.

Other than the certainty that there is no certainty, there is one sure thing: darkness enables light to reveal itself. A new palette for exploration has proffered its possibilities.