“They obviously don’t have kids.” It wasn’t directed at me. But even though it wasn’t, I felt it. I hear it in the lack of conversation that likely stems from the lack of common ground. I notice it in shared looks between parents. And it’s true. I can’t fully comprehend a world that revolves around one’s children when mine is full of the songs of kinglets and mist rising off black water, towering sandstone cliffs and colorful desert wildflowers.
I recently spent time back East visiting family. I rode bikes and looked for turtles in the pond with my two younger nephews. I played guitar and sang Vance Joy songs with my eldest nephew. I pushed my nieces on the swings and taught the eldest how to hang by her knees from the monkey bars.
Before I left my family for some time in one of my sacred places, the blackwater swamps along the Roanoke River, my younger niece Susie said she wished I could live with her all the time. Each time she cuddled up to my legs and held on like she would to her mother, it both warmed and broke my heart to be so loved and trusted, in spite of my limited presence in her life. It was hard to leave.
Roanoke River, North Carolina
This morning, egrets glow pink as they crisscross the sky like jet contrails, like flying sunbeams streaking across the sky. The incessant whining of the blue-gray gnatcatcher is punctuated by the rising trill of the parula and the rhyming ditty of the common yellowthroat. The glass surface of the creek is tickled by the twirls of whirligig beetles, then shattered by the leap of fish. The tiny pyramid of a turtle’s nose appears below my feet. His shell is a watermark beneath the reflection of the half moon on the water’s surface. The intricate details of gray tree trunks are dotted with white lichen. Each branch is hung with a garish shade of green. The feathery branches of bald cypress cry out to be touched in all their softness. The details of the swamp forest are softened in their reflection in the dark water, framed above by the soft sky.
Earlier a ruby-crowned kinglet sang from the tupelo next door. I didn’t recognize it until I used the Merlin app to listen for me. When I saw its name pop up, my ear tuned in. The ruby-crown is one of the most common singers we hear in Yellowstone in the summer. It took me a long time to recognize it there, too. But hearing it this morning, I am reminded of my new home, so different from this swampy sanctuary of my last life. It made me smile. I love both places.
Green River, Utah
The afternoon winds have kicked up, pouring up the canyon of the Green River. Out in the sun, you feel the desert heat. But in my hammock under the shade of the gambel oak, it’s chilly. The oak’s branches stretch out to the river like arms. The small, deeply-lobed leaves provide a dappled roof. Below my perch, the river looks to flow upstream as the stiff breeze blows against the current.
Earlier, just upstream, a mule deer swam about halfway across the river, then turned and went back to shore. I’ve stepped into the muck at river’s edge multiple times and sunk beyond my ankles in the most clinging of mud. But the mule deer? She danced across the last without a second thought, like she was some Jesus of the mud flat.
Framing the river as far as I can see are walls of sandstone, almost blood red in the harsh afternoon light. At this point along the river, the giant stone cliffs of the Wingate sandstone are perched atop the shoulders of the Chinle and Moenkopi Formations that lie beneath them. Sitting so high, I don’t appreciate their scale in the same way I could when they rose straight out of the river next to our canoe. There, the cliffs were a labyrinthal wonderland with ravens perched on ledges and cliff swallow nests tucked beneath overhangs. Now, they are a distant monolith. While this section of the canyon is grand, I am more drawn to the awe of the intimate.
Yesterday, our campsite was in an area of transition from close cliffs to more distant, perched on top on the Chinle Formation. The diversity of plants was remarkable: scarlet penstemon and dwarf yucca, barrel cactus and wooly locoweed, greasewood and narrow-leaf willow, round-leaf buffaloberry and gambel oak. We watched spotted towhees and blue-gray gnatcatchers patrol the line of shrubs edging the river. We listened to the calls of turkey rebound on steep walls and the song of a canyon wren tumble down the wash. Camp had a sense of quiet and intimacy.
For the past decade, Mother’s Day has been bittersweet for me. I always thought I would be a mother. I know folks who didn’t want to have children, or who didn’t think it would be prudent to bring a child into this world. For me, I made choices that led me down a different path from the one I thought I would walk. This Mother’s Day, I joyfully catch up with my mom as she travels the world. I celebrate the different ways my sister and sister-in-law are raising their beautiful children. I reflect on meaningful time making memories with my nieces and nephews, and on two trips down two very different rivers… and for the first time since I realized I would not be a mother myself, I am at peace.
Roads End Naturalist 