On the morning of May fourth, two pick-up trucks pulled up the gravel drive to the point where I was crouched and wrestling with our blue tarp, coaxing it to dry. The first up, driven by a pony-tail behind plastic rimmed glasses, told me her truck didn't lock and suggested she might leave herself parked there beside us to be safe. I thought, "sure" and then said "sure." Like a half dozen folks before her, she continued on the trail up the hill with an empty bread bag bunched into her back pocket, her camouflaged companion in tow.
May fourth hikes itself gently, my partner, our dog, and I admiring the monochrome canopy and undergrowth that glows under the West Illinois sun. We see ponytail and companion a number of times, with other jeaned and belted men under billed hats, all toting bread bags now damp and heavy as if carrying dogshit. We walk into a parking lot where Sebastian tiptoes behind a ruined building to pee. I, holding the dog, read a laminated poster advising safe carry procedure for hunters and their firearms. One should never run with a rifle, nor point it at anyone, loaded or unloaded. One should never use their rifle as a crutch to lean on.
Gone too far and no longer on the trail, we turn and retrace our steps, the view always new from the other direction. Ponytail and her companion are not far along on the trail when we stop for an amicable exchange. They are hunting morels around the base of elm trees. The elm trees are easy to spot, like that one over there, with the bark peeling. A beetle infestation has killed the elm population in forests all over Illinois. Back in the day, one could find eleven pounds of mushrooms around the base of one great tree, best during the rain when most others are inside. On his encouragement, she took me to the base of an elm and with her walking stick pushed the ground vines and leaves around. She spotted a big one. They grow up on thick hollow stems and blossom into lobes of brain peaking out just above compost.
I was haunted by my righteous voice as I stopped and peaked and yearned toward the base of all of the grey-ish peeling trees. Look at your desire to consume. Let go of your desire to collect, to have, to gain. To earn, to receive, to be prized. It burned and yanked at me, the desire tugging back in the other direction toward the bark and base of trees dying at the feast of imported beetles. Sebastian held the dog while I traipsed in some yards and alas, I found another. I found my first morel and in the discovery lay the gratification of a sort I was trained toward for twelve years in school. Be told, repeat as directed, receive praise.
The desire to find consumed me. Sebastian wanted a turn and was compelled to find one of his own, as well. So we walked and the monochrome sprite of May was lost on us, and the quirks of our husky's endeavors were lost on us. We saw only bark and the base of trees. Knowing which bark was elm was the first question we asked of the forest. Vertical bark, greyish, stone like, shallow to the trunk, peels at times with a chestnut brown skin like that on the coat of an almond. An elm. It was early for leaves but perhaps we saw the beginning of leaves and looked for them when asking the bark if it was what we were hoping it would be.
The pull of desire anchored straight to my ribs, the upper ribs beneath my clavicle and centered. I was, like a skier behind a boat, standing and dragging by the same force. Had I not been standing, walking on, I would have been dragged under in an arc beneath the water until against the river stones of the Mississippi River I found a grave to rest upon. I set deals with myself and the righteous officer that policed my want to want. This will be the last tree. The next tree will be the last tree. We found a treasure trove up a mossy rise and one by one we collected the morels into our tea towel bunched and hanging. A scrotum of fungus. Sebastian collected many and so did I and we decided that with some butter, they would make a fine dinner. A self congratulations ensued for much of the walk and more young chlorophyll effervesced without a nod.
It is alright to want, I soothed. Yearning provides, not the same but in line with, what desire takes away.
May fourth hikes itself gently, my partner, our dog, and I admiring the monochrome canopy and undergrowth that glows under the West Illinois sun. We see ponytail and companion a number of times, with other jeaned and belted men under billed hats, all toting bread bags now damp and heavy as if carrying dogshit. We walk into a parking lot where Sebastian tiptoes behind a ruined building to pee. I, holding the dog, read a laminated poster advising safe carry procedure for hunters and their firearms. One should never run with a rifle, nor point it at anyone, loaded or unloaded. One should never use their rifle as a crutch to lean on.
Gone too far and no longer on the trail, we turn and retrace our steps, the view always new from the other direction. Ponytail and her companion are not far along on the trail when we stop for an amicable exchange. They are hunting morels around the base of elm trees. The elm trees are easy to spot, like that one over there, with the bark peeling. A beetle infestation has killed the elm population in forests all over Illinois. Back in the day, one could find eleven pounds of mushrooms around the base of one great tree, best during the rain when most others are inside. On his encouragement, she took me to the base of an elm and with her walking stick pushed the ground vines and leaves around. She spotted a big one. They grow up on thick hollow stems and blossom into lobes of brain peaking out just above compost.
I was haunted by my righteous voice as I stopped and peaked and yearned toward the base of all of the grey-ish peeling trees. Look at your desire to consume. Let go of your desire to collect, to have, to gain. To earn, to receive, to be prized. It burned and yanked at me, the desire tugging back in the other direction toward the bark and base of trees dying at the feast of imported beetles. Sebastian held the dog while I traipsed in some yards and alas, I found another. I found my first morel and in the discovery lay the gratification of a sort I was trained toward for twelve years in school. Be told, repeat as directed, receive praise.
The desire to find consumed me. Sebastian wanted a turn and was compelled to find one of his own, as well. So we walked and the monochrome sprite of May was lost on us, and the quirks of our husky's endeavors were lost on us. We saw only bark and the base of trees. Knowing which bark was elm was the first question we asked of the forest. Vertical bark, greyish, stone like, shallow to the trunk, peels at times with a chestnut brown skin like that on the coat of an almond. An elm. It was early for leaves but perhaps we saw the beginning of leaves and looked for them when asking the bark if it was what we were hoping it would be.
The pull of desire anchored straight to my ribs, the upper ribs beneath my clavicle and centered. I was, like a skier behind a boat, standing and dragging by the same force. Had I not been standing, walking on, I would have been dragged under in an arc beneath the water until against the river stones of the Mississippi River I found a grave to rest upon. I set deals with myself and the righteous officer that policed my want to want. This will be the last tree. The next tree will be the last tree. We found a treasure trove up a mossy rise and one by one we collected the morels into our tea towel bunched and hanging. A scrotum of fungus. Sebastian collected many and so did I and we decided that with some butter, they would make a fine dinner. A self congratulations ensued for much of the walk and more young chlorophyll effervesced without a nod.
It is alright to want, I soothed. Yearning provides, not the same but in line with, what desire takes away.
Very thankful this is the first thing I read this morning. Like kicking off w a divine breakfast. <3
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