HEART WOOD

I have a new lover. He’s tall, seems like over 100 feet sometimes. His skin smells like honey and forest and sun-warmed resin. When I look at him, I feel like making love to him, and sometimes we do. He insists that I tell you that.

The first year, I kept finding nails hammered into him. I’d pull them out. Jigsaw puzzle chunks would tear out of him, layer after layer, peeling away like scabs, with these perfect round holes in them like bullet holes. Finally there were no more nails. I’d pull out the nails as gently as possible, whispering apologies. It reminded me of stories of manta rays and dolphins letting divers painstakingly unwind fishing line and pull hooks out of fins. He stayed very still and waited patiently, too.

Then it seemed that the die-back stopped and I couldn’t tell yet, but maybe the healthy needles were just a little greener. And were there a few more of them? Were they a little higher up this time, and a little thicker? And was it perhaps because we loved each other? When the last dry needles, and the small branches that hold them are finally bare, will the eagles come and nest there? Last week a golden eagle landed briefly on the railing of the deck. Checking out the neighborhood?

The wind comes off the lake, picking up the scent of algae-wrapped fish asleep in the murk, trout and bass and catfish. They’ve settled in already, waiting for winter. The wind scoops up the little glistening flecks of light and throws them down again. They tumble like dice across the water’s surface, divining the present, now and now and now again in endless revelations as long as there is light. After dark, the divining continues in secret, with no one but the sky to see it. On this blustery day it twinkles like circuitry on a switchboard. All those lights and flashes, sparkles and whiteness. A landscape of joy outside the window, the stage and props for the joy indoors of sitting mesmerized by the fire, notebook in lap. That’s in his scent, too.

I think, dazzling and dancing and, What is the exact right word for the blue of the water? A blue-green lake reflecting pines along the shore and waterweeds underneath. Not an astonishing blue, and yet it matters. Not the blue of sky, not blue jay, not country-cottage. Not Delft. More like mocha or latte, only instead of coffee it’s a milky blue lake.

I make offerings and pour milk into it, and I like to think I help make it that color faded denim, or help keep it that way. I pour Thank You, and Bless You, and Thank You, I Love You, from a pale blue pitcher with birds on it. I pray thoughts and it drinks them. I make jokes to myself: Lake-accino and Lake-au-lait and Thanks-a-latte.

My lover wants me to tell you what it feels like to fall in love again, and for the first time. The steady way it glows just below your skin and reminds you of who you are because of each other. He says, Say it! Say it! Tell them what it’s like… OK. Here’s how it is: I open my arms so my whole chest presses up to him, and he likes it. My fingers tingle when I open my hands and let him enter through my palms, my cheek flat against his chest, and that scent again, pulling off the lake and wafting up from the brown sugar crevices of his skin. I can’t inhale without closing my eyes and melting gratefully into him.

Tell them, he says, how you sometimes forget all about me and then suddenly remember and how you long to put your arms around me when that happens. Tell them how handsome you think I am, and how happy I make you and how often you tell me you are glad and grateful that we have each other.
Is it cheating on a man to fall in love with a sugar pine? I look out the window and talk to him. It’s cold in the mornings and at night now, so I stand in the dining room or on the landing and we talk. I can sit in the hot tub and watch the light as it moves up to his crown and disappears. The torn and faded green tissue paper kite is still there, its rippling string tail still caught in the second branch from the top. I hope this winter it finally blows loose and floats away. I blame it for the lightning strike.

During the drought, the brown needles kept appearing lower and lower until I thought he might be dying. Each time I visited I’d stand there and cry. I’d sprinkle birdseed and water and beg the birds to sing more, thinking they could call out the greening, raise the healthy sap and banish the damn kite. That’s how I fell in love with him.

Last night we were talking before I fell asleep. He nodded toward the lush, tall pine by the little forest I planted. Begin to notice her, to love her, that tall healthy pine by the shed. She lost a partner years ago and has many things to say. I can picture her easily. There is a huge stump beside her where I put peanuts and birdseed for the squirrels and jays. She has no branches along one whole side, where her partner used to be. In the morning I greet her and the others nearby. I thank her and sniff her skin. She speaks: We were here when they built the first cabins, and later, when it was a Japanese internment camp. We were here before the dam, before there was a lake at all.

The wind kicks up. I am watching the trees along the point across the channel. They lean together and rub branches. Watch how happy we are when we can grow close together, they say, how we love each other in the wind. See how easily our needles fit together, how they interlace. See how we can’t reach to touch each other when we have to grow alone or too far apart. See how things happen when you can begin to see? Just then, did you notice?

A burst of blackbirds pulses off the reeds in front of the house, gusting onto my deck in the low sun, gusting back toward the water. The lake grass, the sun, the insects, the seeds. The blue water. The whitecaps. The blackbirds. The sun. You see how it happens? says my lover.

My neighbor wanted to cut him down. The County Office of Hazardous Tree Removal wanted to cut him down. I threatened a lawsuit. I did all the usual things: I took photos and sent faxes. I signed paper work. I wrote a nasty letter, and even put in a good word for the not-dead, not-hazardous trees across the street that they also wanted to cut down. In the end, they fell silent and for now we are safe. Now I know you meant it when you told me you loved me, he says gently. They can’t cut me down as long as you’re here. Again, the birds. Arcing toward and away, towards the sun and back again, sweeping into the afternoon wind.

THE SOIL REMEMBERS 1

The soil of Liberia remembers the taste of the ancestors whose placentas were buried at birth under the trees, uniting the bodies of people with the trees and the land. The trees and the rain remember the taste of a land that could not be bartered or sold, paved or mined or moved away from. It is not the same as the taste of dismemberment and grief, of sewage and fear, not the same as the empty soil where birdless trees are struggling. In this soil are the nephews that were sacrificed to ensure peace, buried alive, one in a generation, an offering from people whose word for sacrifice means to give more than you can. The offering is not meant to placate an insatiable or bloodthirsty Spirit. It is an offering of themselves to each other that delivers them into the hands of the mysterious forces that keep them indivisible and safe. How then, can it recognize these children forced into it at the point of a gun or a knife, their blood drained and stolen for purposes never intended or demanded by the gods? The soil remembers the old times when the villages that sacrificed a nephew were not touched by war. Because of this, a boy whose name we do not know, in a small village not far from the capital, may have kept the killing at bay. They say the story is true, that it really happened.

Here is how I imagine it: On the day of the offering, at the center of the village, is the mother of the boy. The whole circle watches, hushed and humbled, terrified by their gratitude as the silence swallows him on their behalf. They say that everyone in the village – except the mother - helped to dig the grave, even the toddlers who are too small or the ones who are too old to understand exactly what is happening. They say that each person removed one shovelful, or one fistful, and added it to the common pile, until they had opened a chasm that was wide enough to hold the end of a life, all the days that lead up to it and all the days that would never come after. Perhaps this is because everyone knows that in order to meet the magnitude of the offering, everyone must recognize that they are responsible. This is why the grave became a sacred spot in the center of the village, where the people built a sacred palaver hut so the councils of elders can gather and, before they speak of weighty matters, they remember where they are.

What are the appropriate questions here? Are they: Who, exactly, was that child? What actually happened? Was it foreseen? How did the dreams inform them and what did the animals know?

Each person watching knows that boy and must now relinquish who he has been to them: The young men offer their companion, the child who was their playmate, with their memories of playing marbles together in the late afternoon heat before the fireflies appeared, a game played in the last light, and the way he became so absorbed in the game that the world fell away as they watched him move noiselessly on his haunches, fast as a shadow, artfully flicking his marbles into the dust.

The town chief offers the lanky, quiet boy who used to loiter by the teashop, listening to the men as they worried about the war, deliberating whether their Christian god could save them or if He had brought it upon them, and, if so, for what reason? Had they offended Him? Or had they offended the ancestors? Did they offend one by honoring the other and did the honoring of one inevitably mean the other had to be destroyed? Who or what could they call upon to solve the riddle of such suffering? What were they to teach their children about the order of things in a world such as this?

The uncle offers the memory of the boy learning to prepare the council tea for the elders: the small cup that barely fits in the palm of one’s hand. The ancient kettle, smudged and dented, as the uncle lifts it from the fire and fills the cup. As he has seen his uncle do countless times, the boy raises the cup above his head and tilts his left hand until the tea flows out in a long, steaming curve that disappears into the cup held in his right hand. Then the right cup up and the left one down. Raising one, pouring into the other, now closer together, now farther apart, shrinking and stretching the thick brown arc of sweet, scalding tea, never spilling a drop, not even at first, as if he had been born to pour this tea in this way, as if could conjure it even without a kettle, a young Zeus practicing with tea until he can pour lightning between his hands. Teacup to teacup, palm to palm, he pours the possibilities back and forth until the tea is ready and his mind is made up. As he offers the first cup to his uncle, he informs him that he wishes to be the one who is sacrificed, buried alive for the sake of the village, in the center of town, as it used to be done before, for peace. Is this how it happened?

What are the questions here? Are they: What actually happened? Did anything change afterwards? How do they speak of it now? And, Is this real or is it a story, and what’s the difference? Whether it’s a story or it really happened, what do we make of this?

The boy’s mother does not offer her consent. She does not give her permission and refuses to relinquish a single memory. The mother can only bring herself to take a pinch of dirt form the pile and sprinkle it into the pot of rice that she must cook for the common meal. She will force herself to swallow just one bite so that she can carry a grain of him inside of her always.

Even the birds must relinquish him, the echo and answer conversations of his boyhood. The dog he has secretly been feeding will expect no more rice. The shaman who dreamed this is secretly begging the spirits, and God, that he will never again receive such a vision in this lifetime.

OFFERINGS

For several years I have been having dreams about making offerings: In the dreams, I see huge, conical mounds of bright yellow corn. Oversize platters piled high with slabs of cake. Tropical fruit cut into delicate squares and tenderly arranged in tiny, clear glass bowls, then set on an outdoor shelf for runners in a race. Sometimes I dream of ways I am to offer myself: I am to dance a dance of reconciliation for arguing guests followed by gifts of olive oil. I hold out my outstretched arms as a perch for birds of prey. I prepare a speech for angry, expectant African Americans gathered as far as I can see on a wide, sandy beach. A frightened, angry man is about to kill a snake. I stop him and argue on the snake’s behalf. In one dream, a friend and I are to meet where the railroad track ends to witness a duel and then carry away the dead. I am collecting plastic water bottles half full of water. I must put them in the freezer to make ice. The more I collect, the more I find.

What are the dreams asking? What do they instruct? In the act of offering I cannot do harm, only nourish. I cannot take, only give. My friend says that to make an offering is to create a tangible edge, a threshold across which one can enter into dialogue with the spirit world.

I pour milk into the ocean: may this milk feed all the life in the sea. For that moment I am the primal mother releasing primal nourishment to herself. As the liquid arc flows from my hand, it becomes a tiny bridge of protection and for that instant all creatures are safe and loved.

As I place an egg in a stream I am entrusting the possibility of new life into the tumbling flow that dances fresh and cool over the mossy stones. It is a sunny day in January. I remove my shoes and roll up my jeans. I step barefoot into the icy water. I can barely keep my balance. My feet are numb and the stones are so slippery. But I cannot hold onto an overhanging branch or reach into the stream to steady myself on a stone because I have an egg in each hand that must be protected at all costs.

On the sacred mountain I come upon a cache of plastic water bottles. The elephants have told me they are thirsty. I pour water on parched ground and become rain. Later that afternoon the cloudless sky darkens and rain comes in person.

I awake before dawn and sleepily look for the first shapes to emerge at the far end of the garden. I see the silhouette of the giant Eucalyptus tree. I turn on the heat. I fill the kettle and hear its first drowsy hiss. I put on my slippers and call the dog. I wrap a blanket around my shoulders. No lights on yet, that would break the spell. I watch for the suggestion of pink above the horizon. The water boils. I catch myself thinking there might be time to make tea. But don’t get distracted. I might miss it. The light before the light arrives on a palette of beiges and grays.

I am excited. Like a puppy. Like a birthday girl. Like a woman acquitted of yesterday’s sadness for the breaking world. For this moment, before the tea, before the headlines, the light is fresh and will soon arrive. When it suddenly blooms, so golden against the tree trunk, I gasp. It takes me by surprise every time, as it should. The chilled air curls around my neck and wraps around my ankles as the dark ground releases its last shadows. And then suddenly there is warmth on my eyelids as I squint towards the East. A faint warmth on my chest as I gratefully inhale. Warmth on my lips as I smile and say, “Thank you for this day!” and mean it. The I Ching says: Make an offering and you will succeed. Imagine! A chance to feed the sun! What an outrageous honor! I reach my hand into the sack of cornmeal and pull out a fistful. It feels powdery and cool in my tingling hand. I stand with my outstretched arm suspended between earth and sky. The gray-blue grains sift through my fingers into the light and are gone.