NONFICTION | Cecilia Malgeri Skidmore Untitled

NONFICTION

Untitled

By Cecilia Malgeri Skidmore

There was a time when meadow, grove, and stream,

The earth and every common sight, To me did seem

Apparelled in celestial light —Wordsworth, “Ode on Intimations of Immortality from Recollections of Early Childhood”

There was a willow in our yard. Its branches draped down to the ground, making a bower under it. As a child I loved to crawl in between the leafy branches that swayed with my movements and sit with my back to the narrow trunk. I smiled, seeing the others walking around – was it a picnic? – my aunts and uncles, brothers and mother – knowing that they could not see me, that I was safe, ensconced in the arms of the willow.

There was a maple tree. She is, for me, the mother tree, my first tree. She was old, fat in the trunk. Her arms reached to the sky and held me in her leaves. I watched the light flicker on the leaves as they moved gently in the breeze. I looked far down onto the world, like a goddess or a fairy, a part and yet apart.

She lowered one branch to the ground. We sat upon it, riding it, our horse, our Pegasus, taking us wherever we could imagine.

Her roots, rising above the ground, gave us tiny homes for our dolls, our kittens, our imaginations. Her shade kept us cool

in the summer, as we, my niece and nephew, lay in the grass, food for our “playing house” dinners, narrow leaf plantain, that, twisted around itself would let us pop off its seed pod, a little playful game of war.

She is in me, all through my life. I visit her when we return to Connecticut. She has my heart. She is my mother.

Now, while the birds thus sing a joyous song

No more shall grief of mine the season wrong

Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting: The Soul that rises with us, our life’s Star, Hath had elsewhere its setting, And cometh from afar: —Wordsworth

I am lying on the hammock next to the patio. It’s a day that’s been advertised as hot enough to fry eggs, but with the breeze, and at this time of the day, four o’clock, it seems comfortable. The tall spruce to my left and the silver maple to my right give me shade and create an arched window of azure sky in front of me. The birds we’ve been feeding since the beginning of the pandemic seem to have found a home here. I turn over on my left side and quietly watch two little sparrows picking at the ground under the spruce. I’m only a few feet away from them, but they don’t seem to be worried. A little farther past is the mysterious bowl in the ground that was filled with garbage and ash when we moved in. It’s now curling around an oval

fountain the birds have made their own. Each afternoon groups of related birds fly in from a tree – perhaps the red cedar or the catalpa that looms over the back. They take their places on the tall flowers I’ve planted around the top of the circle, the roses or the butterfly weed. By twos and threes they drop down to the edge of the water and drink or dip their heads under, shaking the water off, and then take off, to be replaced by a few more. First the sparrows. The cardinal parents fly to the spruce and wait their turn. The bluebird peeks its head out of the unlikely bluebird box affixed to the top of the brightly painted chair, given to us by a friend just for that purpose. Then, without seeing how, the two bluebirds fly like jets across the expanse of the lawn to the double-trunked oak and wait from there.

As I lie there watching this Cirque du Soleil ballet of birds, I become aware that I am in the flight path of some other birds, probably more sparrows, who fly like, well, like birds, back and forth from their nest in the eaves of the house to my right and the spruce. It doesn’t seem to be bath time for them; I can’t discern their intent, but I can marvel at their speed and grace. And I cover my glass of water just to be safe.

Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting: The Soul that rises with us, our life’s Star, Hath had elsewhere its setting, And cometh from afar: —Wordsworth

This acre of land, surrounded by the acreage owned by others and left fallow or landscaped beautifully, is a mile from a busy thoroughfare and big box stores. And yet it is quiet here, save the bird song. The sky is another bowl, edged on the

ground by tall trees, oaks, willows and catalpas. At night, after the sun sets and the sky darkens, the stars show themselves. I am up early, six in the morning, which is dark most of the year, but in the winter it is black as night even then. I let the dogs out and look up at Orion, watching over me every morning and say hello to him. At night there are the Pleiades, the Big and Little Dippers and others I cannot name. It doesn’t matter. I am a small part of this tiny piece of the universe, filled with awe and gratitude for the display. The moon rises and I watch her light through the trees as she makes her way. Or she comes late, and I wish her good morning and good night as she sets and I arise. She shines in our bedroom window, keeping watch over us as we sleep.

I loved Madeleine L’Engle’s trilogy that begins with A Wrinkle in Time and always dreamed of having a star-watching rock like her characters run to when times are difficult. There is no granite here, and certainly not one that is ten feet in diameter, as I imagine hers is. But I went to a landscaping company and asked what kinds of slabs of rock were available. The salesman showed us to the area where the boulders are available and I spied a stack of five limestone slabs, each large enough to hold a body, torso and head. Legs could extend to the lawn, bare feet could feel the soft grass. I said, “Yes, this is what I want.” He gave me a price and I paid.

When I told people what I was doing, they generally responded with, “Ohhh, that’s interesting,” their voices trailing off to let me know they had no idea what I was talking about. The day came and two men, one young, the other old, came in large trucks to place the stones. I had planted a grass around which I wanted the stone arranged. They would look like a fivepointed star from above. They asked no questions, just deftly

placed each stone and left. I took photos and sent them around. Again, “Oh, interesting.” I could read the bewilderment in the simple texts that came back.

And yet, as people come to visit, they ask about the stones. They find themselves drawn to the stones. “Your own private Stonehenge,” they say. They sit on the stones, “just to try them out.” They ask what it feels like to lay on the stones and look up at the night sky. On a few occasions, some courageous friends have joined us on the stones and watched the stars in the sky and our little stars, the lightening bugs, dance around us. Then, in the dark, among the bird sounds one can hear, “Aahhh….” And they understand.

Ye blessed creatures, I have heard the call Ye to each other make; I see The heavens laugh with you in your jubilee; My heart is at your festival

I hear, I hear, with joy I hear! —Wordsworth

When we came to this property five years ago, both of us were struck immediately with a sense of home. I grew up on an acre in Connecticut, between a house owned by my brother and his family and an easement that allowed us to imagine that we owned the property. We were the only children to use the easement, to hide in the bushes and explore the territory beyond our safe acre. There were cherry trees, grape vines and a seckel pear tree. My father had read a book called Five Acres and Independence and wanted to create his own Eden. He never did.

But I have begun to take this acre of parched soil, empty of birdsong, and begun to bring it back to a state of flourishing. I have planted prairie grasses, built rain gardens, filled the bowl and the fence by the road with native flowers. Beginning this fall I will prepare the space and soil to put in a Miyawaki forest, a woman-made forest that should create its own ecosystem and continue to replenish the soil and provide homes for more wildlife. It will contain 25 trees, some of which will be fruit and nut trees, to provide nourishment for all of us animals, including the human ones.

When the pandemic began and we were sheltering in our space, we bought two bird feeders. The few sparrows that live in the eaves of our house are now accompanied by bluebirds, cardinals, sand hill cranes, hummingbirds and goldfinches. The squirrels live in our apple tree, giving our dog something to howl at, though she cannot seem to catch one. There are deer, turkeys, owls, woodchucks and even a coyote passing through our land. It feels like Eden to me.