Because I don't know where to start, I will. It occurs to me that among my readings I am listening to women in nature, women gardening, bird watching, describing flora, attending to clouds and winds. Women digging in dirt, discovering insects, rodents and snakes, these women. they tell me about their insides by capturing the complexity of their outsides I read and I listen, placing a hand over my heart, hearing my full laugh. Women outdoors and indoors seeing double seeing more because they must seeing twice because it's a habit seeing over and over because that's how you make yourself sure when you're not. These women in nature, talking of nature, defining nature making sense. Sense making women talking nature walking nature stalking nature. Naming flowers and weeds, breeds and seeds; clocking reasons and seasons and they tell me all about loss in ways I understand in ways that make sense in ways that tell me I'm not the one who's confused. These women in nature. Of feathers, fur, nests and burrows; mating, preying, hatching and losing. Of blue jays, red wings, yellow tails and cottonmouths Of chokecherries, gooseberries, honeysuckle, and rambling roses Of grasshoppers, crickets, spiders and monarch butterflies Of compost, fertilizer, peat and the true composition of dirt Of becoming, abandoning, returning, adapting These women writing on nature The nature of these women writing on nature because it's where we are because it's what we are yet so oblivious, it hurts.
Dedicated to Margaret Renkl, author of Late Migrations and Antonia Malchik, friend and author.
One thought on “Women Writing Nature”
Oh my gosh, Sherri. 😭 is how I’m feeling after reading this. It’s so true: “They tell me about their insides by capturing the complexity of their outsides.” Thank you 💙