This chapter is all about hope, hope for Terry’s mother and hope for seeing ‘accidentals’, or birds that wouldn’t normally be where they are. For example, an American Flamingo in Utah! The possibility of seeing something wonderful somewhere unexpected is a reason for hope. This was linked to Diane’s letter which was meant to provide hope for Tammy, a young cancer patient.
This wasn’t exactly what stood out to me though. My first thought was why the chapter was called Pink Flamingos instead of American Flamingos. Flamingos aren’t pink naturally, they get their color from eating shrimp. This made me think of the effect of outside forces on an individual and how they can change the fabric of who we are. This theme surfaces in many of the chapters of Refuge but especially in the Epilogue. Cancer has a huge effect on the people who have it, it wildly alters someone’s life. Plus, it also affects the loved ones of the person who has cancer. The cancer itself alters everything and to some degree the information around it does too. It carries huge emotional effects that can greatly alter someone.

It turns out I am easily distracted, especially when it comes to kittens and small children. I learned this while standing under the low ceilings of David Kline’s barn. I was there to learn! But I will not lie to you, I was knocked off track by a small mewing kitten that somehow ended up in my arms. I managed to pull myself back to listening intently to David Kline’s voice but I did not let go of my new cat friend. As David Kline finished speaking inside the barn I stroked the soft purring ball of fluff that I was holding and wondered if I would ever be able to convince myself to put it down so that I could continue on with my group. As I was contemplating my options my group disappeared around the corner of the barn. David Kline was talking to Liz so I quickly asked if I could bring the kitten with me to our next destination. He told me to put it in my pocket and take it home with me! I was very tempted to do just that, but it seemed the kitten did not want to leave the barn. So I put him down and ran to catch up with the rest of the class.

While visiting his farm I was amazed to see that the author of the book I had been reading was real! And he was nice! There was no condescension behind his voice. He seemed happy to tell us about his experiences and wanted to hear about our own. His writing was rich with personality and voice and it was fantastic to see it in real life. I noticed that as he was explaining how his book got it’s name one grandson was peaking through the holes in the barn door, trying to get a good look at the strangers gathered in front of his grandfather. The door shifted and banged against the post over and over again as the boy peeked in, but David Kline didn’t pay him any mind. Another grandson had climbed on top of a stack of hay and was watching us from the shadows, as interested in us as we were with his grandfather.

When I write I often do so in large brushstrokes. I cover entire mountains in a moment and write like I am running out of time. I sometimes feel like I am running uphill when I write. Adding more and more just to reach a word count. Annie Dillard has shown me that writing is more about finding the meaning of the piece and fully understanding what you see. She goes into minute detail when describing the natural world, for example on page 127 of Pilgrim at Tinker Creek when she explains elodea and the chloroplasts inside each cell she describes the plant in incredible detail, sparing nothing. Dillard zooms in on individual cells then keeps going by discussing the atoms inside the chloroplast. However, she still includes the big picture she explains that “All the green in the world consists of these whole, rounded chloroplasts wending their ways in water.” Her writing includes every detail, but it isn’t erratic and hurried. She focuses on the bigger picture by creating it herself. It’s not just a plant, its atoms that have formed into cells that have become a plant. She revels in the details, she makes them important. And when she finally reaches the largest image the reader can understand it because she has shown the journey of how she got there. She creates new meaning and pushes the things we know into strange and beautiful metaphors. This makes me want to do more than reach a word count. Dillard’s pure admiration for nature pushes me to understand and know what I see instead of just observing it.

Tap tap tap, drum beat footsteps on the boardwalk ring out along with voices that discuss the meaning and feel of nature. Poison sumac reaches for my arms and legs as I carefully place one foot in front of the other, making sure to stay centered on the yellowed wooden platform that runs along the path. The constant motion of classmates draw my eyes from the fallen trees that lay silent on the springy peat ground.
Life and movement call my attention, human life. I have to make a conscious effort to separate myself from who I am, a human with a life in constant motion. I push myself to the opposite of motion. I look at the fallen, the dead. I search for stillness. Dead leaves litter the ground. They fall, break, and create peat where ferns spring up and dance together to create a mass of feathered tendrils. Logs along the boardwalk turn green with moss and sprout mushrooms in white tent colonies. Out of the past new generations build themselves. The motion cyclical and achingly slow, but still motion.
Tap tap tap.

I was meandering along the path of Johnson’s Woods examining the jade leaves that climbed the moss covered logs scattered on the forest floor when suddenly I was jolted out of my reverie by bold words scraped into the silver thinly creased bark of a beech tree. They were not freshly carved, the bark had scabbed over the letters and they had darkened from age, making them even more noticeable. But they were easily visible which made me believe that they couldn’t have been more than a couple of years old.

Why do humans leave behind destructive evidence of being somewhere? Not just footprints, but large striking signs carved into trees to tell the world that “B+T” are in love. Some animals create disruptions of the natural environment as well. Like bucks who leave behind rubs on trees because they are getting rid of the velvet on their antlers. But they don’t carve their names into trees the way humans do.

Is this scarification of forest a way to claim ownership over an area the same way wolves mark their territory? Is this akin to a flag piercing the ground of a new land, calling it property of the ‘discoverer’? Johnson’s woods is by no means a new discovery. In fact, by 1823 when Andrew Johnson’s great grandfather left France and settled in Ohio many of the trees were already 200 years old. Someone had to have been there before ‘B’ and ‘T’ became a couple, probably even before they were born. And yet ‘B’ and ‘T’ assumed that they had the right to commemorate their relationship on an living tree that is probably older than they are.

Submerging in water feels like washing away reality. As the cool currents lap against my body my temperature begins to cool and match that of the soft shifting waters surrounding me. As a child I lived in Massachusetts and went to Lake Wyola every day. My mother, brother, and I would make our way down our dirt driveway, dust flying around our feet, and onto the thick black tar that sliced through the surrounding forest.
As a young adult this lake still draws me in. But is much more crowded than when I was a child. There are more children, more brightly colored towels, and more plastic buckets lining the shore. I took my niece there over the summer. She is four and has spent barely any time in the water. But, while fascinated by water, my niece is rather afraid of swimming. It took me half an hour of cajoling to convince her to put her face in the water and blow bubbles. Then less than five minutes later, we were told to exit the water. The lake had not passed its algae test. Within minutes the crowds that had previously been splashing in the water disappeared into their minivans, and my niece and I started our trek back home and to the bathtub.