The Shrub

Loneliness is my favorite thing about the shrub-steppe. From here, I can see the soft hills undulating until the vegetation turns into a fuzzy edge. Somewhere in the distance the shrubs turn green and grow taller. The massive white volcano dominates the horizon, standing uncontested. And as my mind inevitably completes the object; I can’t help but wonder why do I believe the other half exists. Today I can see only half, tomorrow its existence must be displayed again. As I turn my head I feel the buzz that reminds me why people hate camping in the summer.

A cold handle gently touches my hand. Yes, thank you friend, a hot coffee is the only thing missing. The mug comes into my perception and becomes my new reality. I still feel alone, and that’s the point.

The worse thing of therapy is the undivided attention; the worse thing about group therapy is the company. That’s why when Astrid became my quiet friend, I felt relief.

“Astrid, would you like to share today?” I thought I hear the therapist ask, as we sat in a crooked circle.

Astrid just shakes her head no. That’s it, that’s always it.

One day, she gestured for me to sit by her, so I did. I remember when, after a particularly stressful day, her bright yellow nail pointed at a path hidden by the ferns. It was cold and the mist was tangible; whereas she was not. As we stepped under the trees, my anxiety melted, and I understood what she was doing. She was in search of mute solace after the barrage of language, emotions, and the discomforts of belonging to society. I never saw her again; in life or dreams. Maybe she didn’t need therapy anymore.

“How is your anxiety?” asks my psychologist, as she stares at different parts of my face, reading me with a pleased smile.

“It’s better, I’ve been walking a lot, taking time for myself. Those sorts of things…” I said, unsure if I was telling the truth.

My brain was floating in cold water, filling up but never bursting. There was always a beeping, and sometimes it was my phone. My heart was pounding, making me feel like I’ve been chased by a pack of wolves.

“Have you ever considered a silent retreat? Let’s go to Bali!” texted my friend from a previous job. I was transported to the chirpiness of work, the buzzing hallways and the rhythm of the copy machine. Life before the panics.

“No.” I typed, immediately regretting the harshness of it. She is going to think I am mad at her. “I mean, sounds expensive, and traveling sounds exhausting.” There, that's better. “Let’s go camping and not talk. Is cheaper and there will be less people to ignore.”

“Let’s,” she answered briefly.

And thus, we sit on purple folding chairs, staring at the wild flowers. I am thinking of how all the flora weaves this intricate play of bright colors, bleeding into grays and browns in the distance. I don’t know what she is thinking, and that is fine. Is not silent; the bees and bugs to all the talking.

In the morning, I sit hugged by the warm of my sleeping bag, beholding the condensation. Small drops roll, gathering the dew as they travel down my window. The path it clears lets me peek through; it is still dark at the bottom of the horizon, the oranges, reds and pinks announce the day with glee. Here, in the trunk of my forerunner, I feel safe. No one will ask me “why’s”. I hear a ruffling that lets me know she is also awake on the rooftop tent. I get up and sort through the beat-up kitchen-bin; today I’ll make the coffee.

A few years ago, as I drove west with my husband, we took a break at a rest-stop. When we grew tired of sitting out in the mid March cold, we walked inside and were greeted by a wall-size illustration of “The Importance of Native Shrubs”. The drawing showed small, thick vegetation with deep roots that bloomed and held under the earth. At the edge, it showed a small weed, with shallow roots. The native vegetation keeps the soil together, giving it nutrients and strength. The small weed did not; this was an invasive species. As a twice-invasive breed myself, I felt awe and pain. I wondered if that was the source of the hollowness that formed my beliefs. Maybe I’ve had weak footings. Since, I have reproduced, grown a garden, and camouflaged with the local chicken keepers, as successful invaders do. All the while, amid the cries, the beeping appliances and constant noise, I try to push down new tendrils to hold me steady into this land.

“What do you do?” said whoever it was this time.

“I stay at home with my toddler,” I said.

“Mi amor, don’t sell yourself short, you are a painter!” said my husband with the wide confident grin of the well-employed.

“Oh! Have I seen your work anywhere?” he said.

“No.” I say.

I go over random bits of conversations as the yellow light spreads over the oscillating landscape. Maybe I am here to process all the things that have been said. The topography, with its roughness, reminds me of the ridges of my brain. In its shades, I find all the things I have shared; mostly the ones I shouldn’t have. I also muse about the clever replies I concocted after it was too late.

“I hired you a friend,” said the coworker who interviewed me in sandals. We were sitting in the break room eating peaches from the garden behind our building. That tree doesn’t exist anymore, and neither does the building.

“That’s an interesting way of using the grand,” I said in my mind. “Oh?” I said out loud.

“You need a friend,” I imagined he thought. “She’s the new social worker, she studied Spanish, you’ll like her,” he said instead.

“Yes, because I come from an island with four million Spanish speakers and none of them are my friend.” I thought. “Good, we need a social worker,” I said instead.

He was right, I think as I listen to the person he hired quietly stir in her tent. It has been six years, countless once-in-a-lifetime events, and two thousand miles since. Some perennials we passed showed charred barks. There have been wildfires; the signs are few and far in between. In this scenery the truth of this fact is concealed with overbearing beauty. Perhaps is age that has led me to believe that there is little that can actually be known by looking.

“I don’t think I am a very good friend, its just been me an Eduardo since we moved here,” I had told her many years ago. We were jogging through the city park, after I had picked her up at her boyfriend’s apartment. The morning was cold and crisp; I remember being excited to show her the wild turkeys that roamed around.

“Well…”she paused to think for a moment. “I am a good friend,”and she was. “Maybe I can help you, I help you with that and you help me eat less m&ms,” she had said, immediately taking responsibility and having an action plan.

“Turkey…” I had whispered, pointing at the flock.

It is so hot now that it is hard to recall a Midwestern winter existing. Soon it will be scalding. As she stares back I exaggerate the motion of using my jacket to cover myself from the sun, in case she doesn’t know that she shouldn’t be in the sun for long. The air is heavy and dry, and I feel its radiation from under my makeshift parasol. There, in the middle of the road I see the tracks. They are faint, but I can see four toes spread evenly without claw marks; the prints form a line that disappears into the bushes; towards the car. I scan my surroundings and find nothing, but cougars are sneaky. No longer the apex predator; we are prey. This is the use of language, to scream about dangers. I wonder if this merits breaking the silence. If untold, she would never know. There is also the possibility that I am wrong; the cougar could be long gone. In that case, we will still have to find another spot. Indecision stumps me. What is really the role of truth here? I rush back, bladder full, to find her sitting on the ground under the cover of the open trunk; I think she is meditating. As I tap her I wonder if this is the same as talking, an abrupt interruption in order to communicate a message. She startles and opens her eyes, narrowing them with confusion. As a response, I grab her hand and bring her to the road. I point to the tracks, but she doesn’t react. I open my hand and place it next to it. There, I see the fear in her eyes. Relief washes over me, no words necessary. I don’t care if she thinks that is a cougar, a coyote, or an alien. The truth is irrelevant, so long as we agree to leave. She folds the chairs and I gather the cooking supplies. 

“People are not entitled to all of your time,” I had said while driving home from baby-swimming lessons. The local cows were barely visible through the thick raindrops.

“I know,” she replied from four hours in the future. She was in traffic, on her way to a protest, a meeting or a charity event. I could vividly picture her route; the brick buildings, the bus stops, the bare branches, perhaps melting snow.

“You are their friend, but some of these people; they are not your friends. You’re already helping, that is called ‘your job’ that you already do; stop answering the phone.” I stated hypocritically. I would have been sad of she hasn’t answered for me. I always try to be at my best when I call her. I don’t want her to deal with my problems too. Sometimes, when she calls me, I get caught off guard and I rant needlessly.

“I know… but I have vacations coming up and I am going to Italy,” she said in the tone one ought use when discussing inherently exciting plans. “anyways… I am here, Love you friend!” She says cheerfully as she hangs up to go save the world. I’ve had other friends say they love me. But I’ve never had one who calls me friend. I find it reassuring; it reminds me that yes, I have a friend. A real one.

The thing about reality is that we can only see so much. I wonder how deep are the roots of these giants, I don’t mean how big, but how much of this entity is hidden below. They let out so much for birds and bugs to make a living. I drive slowly, all four wheels engaged, our heads swaying with the movements of the car. We start to see small groves, a few dozen identical conifers standing together. As the roads ease we see a red pickup truck, a man in hunting gear with three dogs in tow. We exchange a nod as I drive past. Is this an acknowledgment that he is a person and so am I? Maybe we are nodding because he is here, and so are we. He can’t tell I have an accent by the way I move my head. I feel for the pronghorn, the deer, or the elk. I have learned a lot since moving here; I no longer consider him a murderer, just a part of this land. He does what has always been done, I tell myself as I lose track of the dogs in the rear view mirror.

Eventually the trees grow in size and number, and I take a left onto a hidden road. She doesn’t question it but glances curiously at the marked, stained paper map. This road is not on the map so I draw it in, and add a circle with the date. This collection of squiggles, arrows and dates is my most prized possession. We park at an opening between the evergreens. Yes, this is the spot. As I check the perimeter I smile, there is no expansive views in here; just spruce. Huge bumblebees crash with the red brake lights. There are fewer flowers here, and the truck seems tasty. Here the quietude is deep, causing my mind to add random noises. The few bugs are loud, no longer lost in the cacophony of thousands of their peers.

Is cold at night, and I miss my husband’s reassuring warmth. I add another base layer and I wonder if I packed enough. If he were here we would be talking. He is a pine, tall and steady. He has many branches in which wild ideas nest; and he has never been out of words.

“Conifers are not pines,” he boomed loudly enough to be heard by thirty college students. I think that is what he said, but it might have been the other way around. “You didn’t give me a fork” he adds as my apple-potato-hash steams deliciously in front of us.

“The problem with reality is that something, something, something, according Husserl.” He says often, while wiping the table, as I smell different spices to see which one will go well with the stew.

I have this mental illness that doesn’t exist. The main symptom is that I cannot tell reality from dreams. As I toss and turn, realizing that maybe I have one-too-many layers, I muse about how I have been able to hold an academic conversation for fifteen years. I feel pride in that, and in my haze I feel like I am back home, chit-chatting by our fire-pit about the epistemology of one thing or another. I married up and I never intended that.

The feeling of a curious gaze wakes me up. I don’t remember opening the door, but it is completely ajar. The two huge eyes seem to ask if I am a colonizer. He doesn’t think I am a hunter. He, because the elk by the forest edge is massive. His antlers glowing in the early morning light. There is no heat or coldness. I feel no fear, and neither does he. “I don’t know…” I answer in my head. The muscles on his chest contract, in preparation to unleash their power. In one flawless move he darts for the trees and disappears into the wild; leaving me with the sensation of being seen. I have existed here, if only for this one creature.

It is warmer now. I pour the boiling water into the mountain-meals packages, completing my arc as the giver of goods. My friend sits on a rock, birds visit us and we point at them, playing “find the steller’s jay,” and she smiles widely. Silence is ostensible, I can only talk about what is here now. She doesn’t know about our magical visitor. In her perception the elk never existed. I wonder if she knows which creatures inhabit these woods. I wonder if it matters. Without language only the present exists.

As the vegetation thickens I feel a return to reality. I drive; she looks out the window. It’s just a few miles before we abruptly transition onto asphalt. I wonder who will talk first, and where is the edge of silence. Is it the asphalt, the town, the highway? Sometimes I wonder if Astrid was imaginary. At my side, my friend feels so concrete, and Astrid did not. Maybe the exhaustion of life got to me and I felt asleep during group therapy. It wouldn’t be the first time. We see the road, and a few ATVs marking the edge of these worlds. Slowly traffic picks up and we see people. No one talks as I drive the many miles of smooth, black highway.

“I have never felt time slow down like that,” she says, while opening the car door. She sounds raspy and I smile.

“It was perfect, wasn’t it!” I say feeling the strange sounds coming out. I forgot the sound of my own voice.

I hug and kiss my husband, happy to be in his strong tattooed arms, but happier that he missed me too. I am grateful he shares a lot with me, because I’ve always had very little. The child is sleeping, and I gaze around taking in this shelter, our country of three.

We shed our dusty layers, shushing each other playfully, talking about all the things we’d like to devour. I take in the scene: my husband and my friend, sitting together laughing and eating take out. I tell them about the cougar, the hunter and the elk. She shares about the views, the birds, and the herd of deer she saw the morning we found the cougar prints. All these days I had my internal reality safe under the earthy surface of my reserve. I had, at last, time to deepen my thirsty roots in search of moisture. The sagebrush is also tall; it just keeps it to itself.

“Hey friend, I saw this plant and it reminded me of you,” my phone beeps as I weed my potatoes, waiting for my kid to return from school. We haven’t seen each other for a while; but as I see the photo of the sage shrub I am transported to that lonely landscape where I once found my footing.