Still Warm

We write to give life to what’s passed us by and what might meet us around the next curve in the path.

It was warm and cozy by the fireplace but outside, the morning glittered. I donned my deep-winter sleeping bag coat and answered the call.

It took but a few moments to realize it was perfect - and I mean perfect - conditions for tracking: a little more than a dusting of snow on the hardpack. Squirrel and chipmunk tracks mingled with crow as I walked out past the blueberry bushes. Every surface glistened.

I left the field, crossed the neighbor’s driveway and edged the woods on my usual path, thrilled to note the fox tracks ahead of me. I could almost see its elegant movement. A row of pearl prints disappeared into the underbrush, then traipsed back onto the scene, paralleling my path.

And what’s this I see? Coon? Yes, I believe it’s raccoon tracks now, trundling in from the field side, crossing and recrossing the fox tracks. A small knot grew in my gut. Is there a killing field ahead? I scanned for signs of distress, for red blotches and chunks of fur in the snow but saw none. I arrived at an open level area and stop stock still. What in the world happened here?

Tracks everywhere - intermingling - meeting and parting and coming together again. Smooth wide splotches - four of them to be exact - where an animal had laid down and rolled over. I would have thought it to be a raccoon family party spot, except for the fact that clearly fox and raccoon tread here. Together.

This was an interspecies mingling. A friendly one at that.

***

Both within and outside of a cultic system, humans too, can surprise. Moved by forces that far exceed the meager grip of predator-preyism, we become more human.

We relate.

We play.

We learn from each other. Which is why inter-cultic meetings are so rich. When an ex-scientologist opens up about believing they were a ‘thetan’, I understand my eighteen-year quest of ‘dying to self’ in a new way.

We behold the magnificence of a chance meeting and celebrate with a dance.

These moments defy our preconceived notions of what it is to be human and we are simply alive and in tune with each other. These interactions affirm our place in life’s ‘great mystery’ in such a way that breath finds us and we say yes. Because sometimes, life is just so fucking beautiful.

These tracks are proof of a story that would never have been told except that I happened by and paused long enough to read them. Within minutes or hours, the letters were blurred by drifting and then obscured completely beneath new snowfall.

But their existence is anchored in my psyche. And now yours gets to play too.

When we write, are we not trackers too? Gathering information from the scraps of evidence. We write to give life to what’s passed us by and what might meet us around the next curve in the path. Sometimes the tracks are pristine and clear. Sometimes obscured, we have to drop to our knees and scrounge for the next bit of evidence: scratch marks on a log, some scat, tufts of hair, guts, and blood left behind from a tasty meal.

Sometimes we step in a snare and kick into survival mode: I’ve gotta get out of here but can’t. Not yet. What are the words?

Occasionally we stumble upon a whole scene, as I did on the early morning of the Spring Equinox: a breathtaking montage that makes me weep to have come so close to such intimacy. I can see the fox, front paws stretched out, tail lifted with just a little wag, Eyes soft. And coon rolls, belly up. Come lick me.

When I can pull myself from this riveting scene, I reenter the woods, continuing on my walk. I gasp aloud. There, on the apex of a small snow-covered hillock is a round spot of bare ground, maybe fifteen inches across. A resting spot - revealed by the body warmth that lingered long enough to melt the snowy blanket it was curled upon. My hand reaches instinctively: is it still warm?

***

Now, it’s your turn.

When you give yourself a few breaths to pause, what happens?

Is your hand reaching for a pen? Is your heart reliving a moment of surprise - or of horror? Life stirs life. Your words come next. Finding a space for your words to be received - especially if you are needing to reckon with cultic abuse - is important.

Is it possible that the Writing to Reckon Connections program that begins on April 12th is a good fit for you? APPLY here to find out or email me your questions. I’d love to hear from you.