My New Year begins in springtime, not in the midst of the cold and lifeless winter when we take refuge as the cold steel of its sword rips through us. I yearn for the smell of freshly cut grass, the anticipation of the explosion of blooms as ants tickle the peony buds, the intense spring storms with their paradox of needed rain and destructive hail.
As I move through the stillness of the forest, I gaze at the skeletal forms of trees and wonder if they are asleep, or comatose, or dead. As I move closer to one, I try to detect any hint of life, any evidence of its consciousness. I listen. I wait. I sense nothing.
The crunch of leaves beneath my feet as I wander provides food for my senses; evidence of a past life, discarded, cushioning my stride, their musty smell of decomposition is pervasive. I bend down and pluck a leaf from its graveyard, holding it by its brittle stem, and roll it back and forth in my fingers and watch it as it performs its dance for me. Around and around it goes, twirling....twirling. It mesmerizes me, this death in motion. I stop and bring it closer to me, intently studying its architecture, first one side, now the other. How different the two sides look...one slightly darker than the other, much like my own hand. The now dormant veins which once provided its lifeblood now only provide structure without function. I crush the leaf in my hands, as if balling up a piece of paper, and throw the pieces into the wind.
I spy tree stump nearby, and amble over to it. After making a cursory inspection to ensure I won't later find myself peppered with bugs, and, finding none, I accept this offered seat with gratitude. Looking up, I notice a blackbird perched atop one of the limbs of a nearby maple, struggling to maintain balance in the gusting breeze. He assumes a crouched posture, wings slightly unfolded away from his body. His long tail feathers provide his ballast, and they are in almost continuous motion. The sunlight kisses his feathers as the wind brushes through them, and I observe that his true color is not ebony, but rather hues of deep, radiant purplish-black. I observe him for a time, wondering if such effort is tiring to him. As I reach up to brush a wisp of hair out of my eyes, the motion startles him and he takes flight.
I see him rising and dipping, as though playing in the unseen currents of the air. His wings beat through the air at times as though with purpose; other times he catches the drafts and is simply carried along. I watch in stunned silence as he banks sharply with the wind, and suddenly catches an eddy. For a long moment he remains suspended in the air, motionless, hovering, facing into the wind. I stand and brush the seat of my jeans, still mindful of the possibility that the wood may be bug-infested.
Gripped with a sudden chill, I turn my face to the sun, seeking warmth. I recall from my childhood hearing scientists say that someday the sun would burn itself out. That it would cease to exist, and all life as we know it would die. I remember being terrified of that possibility, of absolute mortality. From time to time I still think about it, and the eventuality of it still frightens me, though not as much. As I leave the confines of the trees, continuing my day's journey, I catch a glimpse of tiny hints of green amid the blanket of brown leaves. Mere fingertips pointing upward if as in answer to a silent question. And I pause for a moment and turn once again toward the sun, face into the wind.
-Teri Johnson,