Five years have gone by since I’ve come to this place. This old house on the Quaboag River. When first I looked at the house, it was to the yard I went to be with the green of May. I hesitated until October and despite the crimp of a week-long migraine, rose up and agreed to come here. I could only try.
There was a presence when I first moved in that took to knocking things around. When the Indian Corn ornament “fell” and rolled all over the floor, I yelled and we’ve been at peace ever since. I blessed this house by smoke of sage and sprinkle of sea water. Yes, yes, must do again as the moon when ducks fly has come. Storms will come. They always do.
What has my fascination here are the guardians. A line of maple trees marks the border of the property. The tall trees that give the sensation of an allee, which gives birth to the name Tranquility Vale at times. Doesn’t every place want naming? It is a tranquil place and it is my home. Strange to think I’ve been in one place for this long. The urge to roam comes and goes, especially when the birds flock for the journey south. Why am I left behind again! My bones don’t forget and curl up in distaste of winter to come.
The guardians carry what I don’t know. Who was here? Did you see the house built? What do you know? The guardians root deep in the sandy soil. I wonder if the roots reach the river. The leaves are coming off fast. The carpet of yellow, orange and rust. The fuzzy Woolly Bear caterpillars are about. The woodpeckers have come out of the forest to the suet cake already. The geese fly over in the V calling on the way as they follow the Libra Sun.
Sometimes I see the door at the hollow of the tree. I see it only at twilight time and pondered the myth of wee folk. Be there hobbits about? These trees, they stand up and reach for the sky. We want the stars in the warm days, we want the earth in the month when leaves fall. In the twilight time of year, we talk.
Again we go to sleep, we go to earth for rest, finally, simply rest, we go to our home, our comfort our joy. We are old. We are here before the creatures. We grow tall. We are more. We love sun. We feel wind as a song. We never die. We don’t see you at all. I need nothing but where I am and what I am. I carry nothing. I ask nothing. You cannot imagine my being. To sway with the earth, to feel her roll. I stand so still to feel her roll. Can you stand so still? Can you feel the river under your feet? I can stand by this forever. We keep the way. We are guardians.
Written by Frances Wychorski