Of poetry it is said that meaning lands between lines and finds life in spaces. Unlike pure prose, narrative, and other forms of reportage, the pared-down language of poetry, it is said, points to realities beneath and beyond. That sounds like a good walk to me.
Nature all around presents as something revealed but the wildness therein remains a mystery to be found within. Knowing the name of that bunting or wort or snail or cloud enriches the colors of our mental palettes and draws the ecological contours of the landscape. Perhaps the most potent knowing brings us to the place of not knowing, of wonder, of awe. Of mystery.
Listen to birdsong and the space between the notes. Float your mind on a spring-fed riffle or under the moaning pond-ice on a sunny December day. Peer into the algae nested in lichenized crust or the spores in mushroom gills; travel these worlds with your inner eye. See your breath combine with water in the leaf of an oak to explode into vapors and sugars for the life of the world. Feel the planet take your feet.
Still yourself long enough to feel the sun slide over your face. Read a riverbank poem and give your voice to the current. Find your skin amongst bodies in bark and slime and foliage and fur; walk with your kindred of slither and slip, feather and slink. Enter the musical silence of the few and fragile native places that remain.
Wildly Still Retreat: Sunday December 8th at Waubonsie State Park in Fremont County, Iowa. Contact Jack Phillips at email@example.com for more details, agenda, and to register.
*Photos by Emily Hergenrader (top) and Robert Smith.