Nowhere Too Far for Nature's Ruins
Our little Eden has turned of late into a muddy morass as the earth beneath our feet begins to thaw, this early April. The rain we had overnight two nights back, thudding down onto what was left of the snow did its work melting the snow to be sure, and in the process challenging the already-sodden and still somewhat frozen earth to absorb all that moisture. The creek in the ravine is running with the ferocious run-off, muddy and deep.
We choose our steps with care, not only to sidestep those still-frozen portions of the trail, but also to prevent ourselves from spreading crumbling piles of winter dog poo, now revealed in all its pungent nastiness. Something dire happens to dogs' normally civil loo behaviour in the woods come late winter when they simply cannot be bothered making their way deeper into the woods to relieve themselves. Must have something to do with the crumbling snow-and-ice pack, threatening to give way under them with every step.
If it isn't the messy deposits or the icy slides, then it's the ever-widening swaths of pure muck underfoot. Try as we might to avoid them, to tread alongside the trail in vain avoidance of the clay mud and the promise of slipping inherent in its invitation to tread, it's not quite possible. We return home daily with boots suddenly assuming proportions attributable to the scant-seen abominables. When we lower our little dogs into the porcelain sink in the laundry room off the garage, dirt and detritus simply flows off their hairy legs and footpads.
Which is why we don't too often these days see others ambling along in the ravine, during these stressful days of thaw. Two days ago we did see a young woman with thick blond hair, her pretty face lined with encroaching age, her bagged eyes betraying something. She stooped to leash her black Labrador when she heard our tiny Riley hysterically barking, and said she couldn't trust her mild-mannered dog not to react. We apologized to this stranger and made to move on but stopped and talked instead.
A single mother, her oldest boy now 19, she lives alone for the most part, with her dog. She works the night shift, has done for 8 years, although she never planned it that way. She's the night-shift receiving cashier for an area supermarket. Who even thought about all the trucks unloading produce, canned and frozen foods in our local supermarkets, where night-shift also means the stocking of shelves for the day's commerce?
She's lonely, she is depressed, she finds it difficult to sleep through most nights. Her doctor tells her at age 46, might be hormones kicking in. A long discussion ensues between us regarding menopause, a natural process of ageing beyond child-bearing, for which hormone-replacement therapy had routinely been urged upon women. She sometimes walks elsewhere in the ravine with a male friend who has three dogs to walk, she tells us and she smiles, half wryly.
She is a neat bundle of femininity, her figure trim yet full. My jacket is zipped right up against the cold, but hers hangs off her shoulders, the front zipper of her thick and fuzzy tee-shirt right open; her neck is red, and she's hot, she says. We talk about that too, the creepy power surges women experience at the most awkward times imaginable, let alone during the night, leaving us incapable of falling peacefully back to sleep.
My husband is involved in the conversation, alongside my own offerings, speaking as an understanding, experienced older male. She smiles at us both, addresses us equally, soft and trusting, a lovely woman who is companionless in life and chafing with unhappiness over the reality that leaves a deep crater of emotional longing in its wake. When we eventually part, wishing one another the peace of a deep and comfortable rest that night, we discuss between us the sad circumstances of loneliness, of people bereft of partnership.
During today's walk we saw no one else going through the ravine. Until we reached a particular place which gives out onto a street not too far distant, and there we saw in the distance a figure walking slowly, stopping from time to time to look up into the masts of the surrounding trees. A woman, I thought at first, still wearing a heavy winter coat, then realized as we drew closer it was a man with long blond hair and full beard. He continually stepped around the trail although at that point it was relatively innocuous, not mud-deep.
As we passed I noted his disheveled look, the dirt on his coat, his baggy trousers and inadequate footwear. I looked straight at him; he looked beyond me as though it was only him, no one else in the near vicinity. To my "hello", there was no response. I realized that this was not just anyone walking through a wooded ravine. This was a proverbial street person, a human being with no place to call home, and where on earth did he come from?
My husband, well behind us both, finally caught up to me as the young man continued his slow venture into the woods, passing back and forth from one side of the trail to the other. Poor soul, what could one do for someone so obviously not quite there, who likely needed to be looked after, his basic needs seen to by someone who would care about him? We talked about the lack of resources for people who refuse to be treated in an institutional setting, preferring to be ill and free to go where they would, rather than be over-medicated, in a constant fog of drug-induced nowhereness.
In any society, no matter how caring we assume ourselves to be collectively and singly, there are those whom society, fate and circumstances fail, left to flail at the world and their misfortune.
We choose our steps with care, not only to sidestep those still-frozen portions of the trail, but also to prevent ourselves from spreading crumbling piles of winter dog poo, now revealed in all its pungent nastiness. Something dire happens to dogs' normally civil loo behaviour in the woods come late winter when they simply cannot be bothered making their way deeper into the woods to relieve themselves. Must have something to do with the crumbling snow-and-ice pack, threatening to give way under them with every step.
If it isn't the messy deposits or the icy slides, then it's the ever-widening swaths of pure muck underfoot. Try as we might to avoid them, to tread alongside the trail in vain avoidance of the clay mud and the promise of slipping inherent in its invitation to tread, it's not quite possible. We return home daily with boots suddenly assuming proportions attributable to the scant-seen abominables. When we lower our little dogs into the porcelain sink in the laundry room off the garage, dirt and detritus simply flows off their hairy legs and footpads.
Which is why we don't too often these days see others ambling along in the ravine, during these stressful days of thaw. Two days ago we did see a young woman with thick blond hair, her pretty face lined with encroaching age, her bagged eyes betraying something. She stooped to leash her black Labrador when she heard our tiny Riley hysterically barking, and said she couldn't trust her mild-mannered dog not to react. We apologized to this stranger and made to move on but stopped and talked instead.
A single mother, her oldest boy now 19, she lives alone for the most part, with her dog. She works the night shift, has done for 8 years, although she never planned it that way. She's the night-shift receiving cashier for an area supermarket. Who even thought about all the trucks unloading produce, canned and frozen foods in our local supermarkets, where night-shift also means the stocking of shelves for the day's commerce?
She's lonely, she is depressed, she finds it difficult to sleep through most nights. Her doctor tells her at age 46, might be hormones kicking in. A long discussion ensues between us regarding menopause, a natural process of ageing beyond child-bearing, for which hormone-replacement therapy had routinely been urged upon women. She sometimes walks elsewhere in the ravine with a male friend who has three dogs to walk, she tells us and she smiles, half wryly.
She is a neat bundle of femininity, her figure trim yet full. My jacket is zipped right up against the cold, but hers hangs off her shoulders, the front zipper of her thick and fuzzy tee-shirt right open; her neck is red, and she's hot, she says. We talk about that too, the creepy power surges women experience at the most awkward times imaginable, let alone during the night, leaving us incapable of falling peacefully back to sleep.
My husband is involved in the conversation, alongside my own offerings, speaking as an understanding, experienced older male. She smiles at us both, addresses us equally, soft and trusting, a lovely woman who is companionless in life and chafing with unhappiness over the reality that leaves a deep crater of emotional longing in its wake. When we eventually part, wishing one another the peace of a deep and comfortable rest that night, we discuss between us the sad circumstances of loneliness, of people bereft of partnership.
During today's walk we saw no one else going through the ravine. Until we reached a particular place which gives out onto a street not too far distant, and there we saw in the distance a figure walking slowly, stopping from time to time to look up into the masts of the surrounding trees. A woman, I thought at first, still wearing a heavy winter coat, then realized as we drew closer it was a man with long blond hair and full beard. He continually stepped around the trail although at that point it was relatively innocuous, not mud-deep.
As we passed I noted his disheveled look, the dirt on his coat, his baggy trousers and inadequate footwear. I looked straight at him; he looked beyond me as though it was only him, no one else in the near vicinity. To my "hello", there was no response. I realized that this was not just anyone walking through a wooded ravine. This was a proverbial street person, a human being with no place to call home, and where on earth did he come from?
My husband, well behind us both, finally caught up to me as the young man continued his slow venture into the woods, passing back and forth from one side of the trail to the other. Poor soul, what could one do for someone so obviously not quite there, who likely needed to be looked after, his basic needs seen to by someone who would care about him? We talked about the lack of resources for people who refuse to be treated in an institutional setting, preferring to be ill and free to go where they would, rather than be over-medicated, in a constant fog of drug-induced nowhereness.
In any society, no matter how caring we assume ourselves to be collectively and singly, there are those whom society, fate and circumstances fail, left to flail at the world and their misfortune.
Labels: Realities
posted by Pieface @ 5:04 PM
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