Big trees stir memories. You stand in their dimness, where the very light is blue, staring unfocused at the thickest part of the trunk as though it were a long, dim tunnel . . .
Dillard sees memory in trees. Talks about living water. As she observes the day-to-day at Tinker Creek, she knows that the woodchucks and goldfinches and giant water bugs are all part of some large tapestry that we humans only see the bottom of. Only the Weaver can seen the whole pattern, how the trees and seas and sands and waters teem with memories and light.
I am attempting something that I've never done before. As I sit here, typing this post, I'm keeping my eyes closed, letting my fingers do the work. It's a way of trying to turn off the inner censor that is very loud tonight. Nothing that I'm typing seems very good.
It's difficult to produce something worth reading every day. I rarely reread old posts. Can't stand to revisit the past. Trees might trigger memory for Dillard. For me, I prefer not to take strolls down Nostalgia Lane. Maybe, some day, I will sit down and peruse the 2,977 posts I've written over the last six years. I have a feeling that would be a painful experience, like reading Moby-Dick or Bridges of Madison County.
Memory can be a painful thing. For example, if I were to read my posts from exactly one year ago, I would be in the midst of my sister's last days. Don't know if I want to pull on that thread. If I went back four years, I'd probably be watching the London Olympics. Six years ago, worrying about the start of the semester at the university (some things never change).
Saint Marty isn't quite ready to walk through the forest yet.