Follow That Toddler!

On President’s Day, I took myself to the woods. Pre-pandemic, this would have meant going for a trail run or a brisk hike. Nowadays, I may still log a few miles, but I do so at a toddling pace, stopping often to ooh and ahh, to take off my shoes and slide my feet into the cool wet of moss, or to turn over rocks just for the delight of finding out what’s beneath them. I didn’t go to the woods with the intention of writing poems, but as I roamed beneath the trees, following tugs that made no sense to my adult brain but all the sense in the world to my child heart, poems bubbled up as if from an underground spring.  

I’m going to do something a little different in this post and share three short poems, along with the inner tugs that I gave into, giving rise to the poems here. You don’t need to read them all. You are always welcome to skip ahead to the prompt. (But my child self really hopes you’ll actually skip on your way there.)

The first tug—and first poem—arose in response to a low, flat rock, etched with moss and painted in shadow. Something about the meeting of rock, moss, and shadow delighted me. I wanted to sit and stare, so I did. The words “Shadow on moss on rock on ground” arrived quietly in the corners of my mind, so I jotted them down, sort of liking their Seussian sound. But I was sitting on the rock by then, and so I realized I needed to add myself into the picture, which in turn gave rise to this poem . . .

Hop on Rock

Shadow
on moss
on rock
on ground. 

Woman on rock,
next to moss.
Woman, shadow, moss, rock, ground,
under swaying, 

under cawing,
under sky so blue the woman
sees she is not
the source of gravity, not

the original position
by which to calibrate
every preposition.
Ground on rock on woman,

next to moss?
Under moss?
Under
her own
long shadow?

I rose from the rock and traipsed a bit farther down the trail, where I found a huge mat of bark spread across the ground. I felt the impulse to stand on it, as if it were a raft. That seemed silly, and I almost walked past, but then it occurred to me that if I can’t do silly, pointless things when I’m alone in the woods, when can I? And a life without silly, pointless things is no life at all. So I stepped onto the bark and sailed into this poem . . .

Land Ahoy

A mat of bark lies so thick 
it seems a tree said
fuck this shit,
then shed every strip of skin,
waltzed off to some kinder clime, 
a stand perhaps
where trees grow
mighty as masts.

I imagine her bark is a raft,
and I step aboard, I sail
the sea of leaves, water stretching
brown and rippled. I scan
the horizon for land,
mossy green and rising.

It seems I am always in search
of one of these things:
the wild deep of water
or a steady patch of ground
in which to root. 

Farther along the trail, I found a stand of mast-like trees. Oaks and beeches soared to the sky, their trunks far too wide for the wrap of my arms. One oak was freshly fallen across the trail. I climbed over her and immediately knew I needed to climb back up again, lie down across her trunk, centering myself between root and crown. Here’s the poem that came from that.

Things We Hold When We Can’t Hold on

An oak tree grew
two centuries tall
then tipped,
her shallow roots

lifting up to sky. 
Last summer’s leaves
flutter like brown birds
against her arms.

She couldn’t hold
the steadiness of ground,
now won’t release
her ephemeral wings.

And Finally, The Prompt!

If you’ve made it this far, you can probably guess what’s coming. Here’s your invitation: put in a little effort to hear and respond to the tiny tugs (or toddler tantrums) telling you “do this” or “try that” or “I wonder what would happen if.” I say put in the effort because it does take a certain kind of effort. It might, for example, require the effort of carving out time and space away from the bright distraction of your phone. It might mean stepping outside or making time to be alone. It will almost certainly mean saying “yes” to yourself instead of saying “no,” which isn’t always a comfortable proposition. It might mean looking weird to your fellow hikers/commuters/grocery shoppers.

Try to hear and follow at least one nudge from this playful part of yourself. It’s okay to keep your adult filter intact. If your toddler wants to drive a bright red sports car, you probably still should not go hotwire one, unless the car belongs to you. The tug doesn’t need to be anything big or wild. It might just be the pull to buy yourself a candy bar you haven’t tasted in years. Or the pull to walk barefoot to your mailbox. Or the pull to lie down in the middle of the day tucked inside a blanket fort. You do you. But really. Notice what you want to do. Then do it. (Or maybe just notice that this invitation is really hard for you, and allow yourself to have that experience fully.) You might repeat this process more than once. Somewhere along the way, a feeling, image, thought, or Seussian string of words might just bubble up to the surface. Let that inspire a poem!

Whew, this was a long post! If you hung on with me through the whole thing, bless you. If you skipped to the end, bless you as well! I look forward to reading your poems and reflections in the comments thread.