Nature's Nurture

The cool morning breeze on my skin and the skittering of dried leaves blowing through the grass rouses me gently from a peaceful night’s sleep. I peel my eyes open and squint into the brightly risen sun, fighting the temptation to let my heavy lids carry me back into darkness. There is no need, however, for something else comes abruptly to shelter my face from the sun, the sudden change of lighting causing spots to dance in my view. I blink a few times to clear my vision, able then to meet the beady eyes peering curiously into my own. Not leaves skittering, I realize; feathers. 

Tiny talons dance further up my chest, and I slow my breaths so as to avoid frightening the brave little wren perched atop me. It cocks its head, almost as if in greeting, and I smile softly, still wary of scaring it away. I’m not going to hurt you, I promise silently, but the bird lingers for only a moment more before taking flight. It leaves behind a small, brownish red feather, tickling my collarbone, as a memento of our brief time together. 

I take the feather gently between my fingers and slide it into my pocket for safekeeping. A muttered thank you to the sweet creature comes out as a whisper no louder than the beating of her wings, yet my groan as I rise stiffly from the hard ground seems to echo across the treetops. 

It is getting colder, and I know I’ll soon have to establish a shelter to withstand the winter to come. I muse that perhaps I could insulate my makeshift home beginning with my prized feather, just as the birds use their own feathers to line their nests, but I know in seriousness I must begin gathering wood, and moss, and anything I can find if I am to survive to see my beloved birds again in spring.

As I shift, the wind settles, and the sun peeking through the branches falls upon my face. I close my eyes for a moment, savoring the warmth. I have learned in these many quiet mornings why we always spoke of Mother Nature back home. If one embraces nature, nature is bound to embrace them back, to care for them in the same way a mother might care for and embrace her child. Or at least, the way I imagine such relationships usually exist. I find Nature a much more suitable matron than the embittered, aged woman who brought me up in such a vile manner I could no longer bear to contain myself within her dank walls and twisted regime. When the chill of night or the ache of hunger begins to grow unbearable, I attempt to comfort myself with reminders of the greater evil I left behind, the woman I called ‘Mother’ whom my friends and neighbors turned a blind eye to. 

No. To turn a blind eye is to neglect a situation entirely, whereas I had once turned up to a friend’s house --such as I had considered them at the time-- battered by fists and a fire poker, which had still been aglow from our fireplace. I pleaded for passage out of our village of Batstos, out of my mother’s reach, and was instead escorted to my mother’s door. 

Thereafter, most of our tiny community took to spying on me, reporting my activities and whereabouts to my mother as if I were a delinquent and not a victim. There was nowhere in town I could go to escape judgment and disbelief of my suffering. 

I shake my head, trying to cleanse my mind of the painful memories. I had originally hoped to reach Hammonton, a larger town to the west of  Batstos, through the forest. Surely a fresh start awaited me there, where no one knew my face or my past. 

As it turned out, Mother Nature knew neither of these herself, and she has thus given me a home for what has surely now been two months while we became better acquainted. I have lost all sense of direction, except that Mother Nature directs me to water, to wild blueberries, to fish. To survival. It has not been easy, but she has ultimately kept me safe, a luxury I have never experienced at the hands of humans. I recall faintly my panic when my map long ago disintegrated in the pouring rain, yet such desperation to reach a society that never wanted me now seems distant and strange as I take in the serene beauty of the forest in the morning.

I breathe deeply through my nose, letting out my air in time with the gusting wind. Leaves spiral down to the ground before me, and I make-believe that my breath sent them falling. Opening the small pouch tied about my waist, I retrieve a few small berries, just beginning to shrivel. Their tartness in my mouth feels more like living than anything I’ve ever experienced. Slowly, I begin to gather sticks and brambles, content with the leisurely pace nature allows. Nature is always moving, but never in a hurry. 

A blueberry bush, its last buds drooping from the chill of changing seasons, yields enough berries to refill my pouch. Dark, waxy leaves sprout up from the ground behind the bush, the alluring scent confirming it as wintergreen. A fallen pine branch, plentiful in needles, lays beyond that, perfect insulation to reinforce a shelter. 

I follow the path of nature’s provisions, winding my way between towering trees to collect what Mother Nature has bestowed upon me. 

A bank sloping down to a swollen creek reveals even more treasure; golden birds prance daintily atop the branches of an apple tree, roots still clinging to the earth despite its severe angle. I can’t remember when I last had a drink of water. The swirling creek beckons, but the apples captivate me first, their bruised, yellow-green skins catching in the light. I step eagerly toward the bountiful tree, and the thought of the sweet, tangy juices infiltrating my taste buds is enough to make me dizzy. Another step and I close my hand around an apple, but my foot sinks into the mud, and berries topple out of my pouch as I struggle to keep balance. 

The struggle is unfruitful, as I crash into the creek before I can as much as take a breath. Icy water rushes over top of my body, but it is my throbbing head that commands my attention first. I must have dashed it on a rock. I signal my limbs to thrust me up from the rushing stream, but they do not seem to comply. I can feel panic rising in my chest, though at the same time, my lungs fill with water, weighing me down. Down. Clouding my thoughts. Dulling my frantic need for air. 

Get up, I think to myself, but the command already lacks conviction. I repeat the signal, urging my body upwards, but to no avail. In my muddled mind, it dawns slowly on me that perhaps I simply will not rise again. I should be afraid, but the water embraces me. I would wish for no warmer or more loving end than in this frigid stream. 

Though I was not sure of my limbs before, I can feel with certainty as my fingers lose their grasp. My apple floats downstream, but I don’t think about apples anymore. 

Instead, I force my eyes open, to take in the sun one last time before the light goes dark. The water is more still than I thought, but it is swirled with clay and blood, turning the glittering stream above me a brownish red. 

The color sparks familiarity, and I stop fighting Mother Nature as the memory of my morning wren takes over my thoughts.  I can nearly see its eyes looking into my eyes, feel its talons on my chest. What a beautiful, brave creature. I think of the last moment before it flew away, abandoning my reality to that of the fragile, curious bird.

I wonder if my wren feather is still in my pocket. 

I don’t need it anymore, I think. I will simply grow my own wings.

Though I know I have fallen to the bottom of the creek, my body does not feel like it is sinking. I feel weightless, more like I am floating. No, not quite floating.

I am flying.