Orientation Day — Becoming See

Four of us lay in the grass, a pile of exhausted puppies cuddled up in the dappled sunlight. We gaze through the wheeling maple leaves above, shards of blue sky trickling through like fractals from an earlier time.

“We’re leaving in 10 minutes,” Grey says.

Much grumbling follows this announcement. This morning we were strangers. We know each other now, a little--more than we might know any other adult after only a few hours together. The family drama, the work stress. The strain of living in a car--or just living. To return to the bus, to drive back to Trackers HQ in Portland, is to return to that world. Can we stay, Grey, curled up in the meadow on the grass?

Apparently we can, but we’ll be walking back to Portland. Alas.

We began hours ago--a lifetime ago--crouched around a fire pit, a heaping mess of disorganized twigs, lichen, and pinecones heaped in a pile at our feet.

We were proud of our pile. Grey was unimpressed: “Are you confident this fire will light if you had only one match?”

We reconsider. A brief discussion leads to a complete disassembly of our pile of sticks. We begin again, carefully nurturing a teepee of small pencil-lead twigs. A fire grows, consuming our larger fuel as we watch. We are Prometheus, we rival the Gods!

“Do you think this fire would have worked in the middle of December when it’s pouring down rain?”

Oh. Perhaps we are only Prometheus’s second cousin twice removed.

We snake through the woods, languidly. We nibble on clover, identify the different types of blackberry bush. Pause to examine a set of perfectly preserved deer tracks in the sand between the young willows. There’s a story all around us, but we know only a small part of it. The wall of unnamed green is anonymous, yet beckoning. A bird calls and he tells us - something - but we do not understand. We are children here in this vast world, stumbling, inexperienced, yet curious. Enthusiastic.

We pluck morels from a log and bring them back to camp. A 10 year old in the Cooking Apprenticeship fries them for us. He is wiser than us. He adds butter.

We eat the mushrooms with our dirty hands, plopping the dripping oily morsels in our mouths. Succulent. Delicious. A meal fit for Prometheus--not that we deserve it. Only one of us could even hit the target when we learned about stick throwing as a primitive hunting technique. But there is time, yet, to learn.

A whole year stretches out in front of us. Nine months in the world-as-it-was. The expanse of possibilities opens up as we lay in the meadow in a pile. If we could stretch the day out forever we would, but barring that--we’ll be back in September. Will you be joining us?