Day Eight

And on the eighth day, she rested

6/1/23 Rest Day (Day Eight)

Sometime during the night, I woke and thought the island had flooded and that I was being swept away. The wind shushed through the trees sounding like the rush of water and set my hammock to swaying just like the motion of a boat left to its own direction. I fell back asleep and slept deep into the morning. I eased into the day appreciating the cool and fragrant dawn where I was visited by hummingbird and cardinal.

This day was dedicated to rest and enjoyment. I took things slow and made myself a welcoming breakfast of oats then busied myself putting things to rights. I washed my clothes and myself in the river with Dr. Bonner’s Eucalyptus and laid us out in the sun to dry. I took note of the condition of my body. My toes had blood blisters, and I was close to losing a toenail. The backs of my legs sported a rainbow of bruises from yellow to deep purple. I’d mostly done a good job with sun coverage but had missed the strip of skin between the second and third knuckles of both hands. This strip blossomed in small blisters. I thought maybe I had gotten into some poison ivy or something similar and had been treating it as such. But on spending time with it, determined it was a sun rash. My hands were swollen and my exhaustion so thorough I could feel it all the way to my bones. My mouth ulcer was on fire as well.

I took time tending to my sores under a bank of willow and sycamore. Wild broadleaf plantain grew on the island. I chewed a few leaves and spread the poultice across my burns, rashes, and blisters to sooth them saving a little to tuck in my lip for the ulcer as well. Eventually I fell back asleep napping in a luscious breeze. How delicious to have a whole day for nothing.

Apparently, it was national barefoot day which was fitting as I spent the whole day barefoot walking every bit of the island learning step-by-step the names of the plants and trees that grow there: sycamore, elm, box elder, silver maple, river birch, pennywort, fleabane, and Carolina horsenettle, among many others. When you’re barefoot you have to be extra careful where you step. It draws your attention to the fact you are not the first here (nor will you be the last). I marveled at the mud around the island and all the critter prints. Flood-strewn silt of the sandbar sucked me into its grasp up to my knees. I discovered I had a bobcat in the camp last night. When I went to bed there were no bobcat tracks and yet there they were crisp and fresh not but a dozen steps from my hammock.

Over the past several days I had become more and more aware of this light, oily fragrance on the air that I can only describe as somewhere between the smell of magnolias and honeysuckle. It had been driving me mad trying to find the source of the scent. Nothing appeared to be in bloom. Finally, the day before, I noticed these small dandelion-looking puffs swirling around on top of the water. Instinct told me to look up. Sure enough, hanging over the water’s edge, delicate white fluffy blooms hid in the scruff of shaggy trees. That wasn’t enough though, I NEEDED to know what sort of tree this was. The smell was intoxicating and fast becoming one of my most favorites. Fortunately, my island had a bank of them growing along the eastern shore, and I was able to narrow down that they were Carolina Willows (Salix caroliniana).

Carolina Willows

I sat down to recalculate my miles and was discouraged to find there were more than double what I thought I had left. I had some serious paddling ahead of me if I wanted to make it to my take-out by my intended time. I had more than enough supplies to spend at least another week out on the water without resupplying, but I did need to get picked up and brought home eventually. I didn’t want to disrupt the plan established with my welcome-home crew. The goal had settled into exiting the river on Sunday June 4^th when the Cahawba Archeological Park was open and my people were off work. I had backup plans but didn’t want to have to revert to them. No matter. I would take it a little at a time. Stroke by stroke.

Opening my journal to log the day, I took note of the date and realized it was my friend Voice’s birthday. Voice was a dearly beloved poet here in the Birmingham poetry community and he passed unexpectedly in August 2021. He was such an encouragement to me and others, and I missed him dearly. He would have loved this grand adventure of nature and poetry. He was a gardener, and because our friendship started at the beginning of the pandemic, our time together was mostly spent outdoors. My grief grew even more knowing I wouldn’t be able to share stories of my trip with him later.

I read more Carson Colenbaugh poems and then sat down to dinner while contemplating just how much of an obligation chairs can be. The sun descended behind me as I chose to watch the light slip and slide away across the eastern horizon line of trees. I thought about how out here it didn’t matter to me or anyone else if I sat here or 5 feet away from here or over on the other side of the island as I ate. It didn’t matter if I sat with my legs crossed or thrown out in front of me. I was free to make any decision in the moment as it pleased me and my body. That’s so untrue of the obligation of chairs. As a life-long floor gremlin clocking in at 5”2’, I frequently find chairs uncomfortable. They aren’t built for people my size and so often cut into my legs. And yet people become perturbed if instead of a chair you choose a seat on the floor or maybe the edge of a table. We get so caught up in the limiting ideas of what spaces or objects are made for or how they should be utilized.

I sat there pondering this for so long lost in a sea of thought I didn’t tune into the evening verbose with the throating of frogs until one let loose with a particularly startling trill right under my elbow. I had sat so still for so long the amphibious night had crept out to surround me on all sides. I met the discovery with wild delight and was enchanted for a while more until the tug of sleep started to yank at me. I made sure all my electronics were charged and repacked my bags feeling a pang of sadness knowing I would soon have to leave Beaver Island as I came to call it. The moon rose almost-full and the barred owls started up their calls. A single coyote howled as I crawled into bed and passed out again back to deep, deep sleep.

the almost-full moon rising

I must admit writing this day’s post was a hard one. I dilly-dallied on it for forever trying to decide how best to share it with you. Of all the days, my rest day felt the most sacred and private. Just me hidden among the critters and foliage all by myself rejuvenating my spirit. It’s also getting harder to write these posts the further I get. I can see the end posts coming, and I’m not ready to leave this space of recollection. I felt the same way out on the river when I could measure the miles left in double digits and hours. My reluctance to finish these posts is the same reluctance I had on leaving the river.

No matter where I am or how I’m going about my day, I feel the draw of the river. It pulls on me. I want to be back out there. I want to linger in the space of that trip. I want so badly to be back on my tiny island away from the continuing horrors of current events. Now that the semester is over, I’ll have the rest of these adventure posts wrapped up soon. Many of you have asked me what my next big adventure is. The answer is graduate school. I’ve been accepted into a low-residency MFA program with Warren Wilson just outside of Asheville, North Carolina. I’ll spend this summer working on river poems and my poetic craft. In the meantime, it’s Cahaba Lily season again. I’ve already been out once to see them, and will make my way out to their presence again very soon. If you can, you should do so too.