9
‘Whether, as the intensity of seeing increases, one’s distance from Them, the people, does not also increase’
I know, of course I know, I can enter no other place
Yet I am one of those who from nothing but man’s way of thought and one of his dialects and what has happened to me
Have made poetry
To dream of that beach
For the sake of an instant in the eyes,
The absolute singular
The unearthly bonds
Of the singular
Which is the bright light of shipwreck
—George Oppen, Of Being Numerous
I used to dream of running away to the beach to escape Oppen’s busy city, preferably somewhere deserted, an increasingly impossible task now that condo towers have swallowed the shore. Instead I now feel drawn more and more to the forest.
The ocean is almost unimaginable immensity, a uniformity in constant motion. If you struggle to visualize spacetime as described by quantum physics think ocean: vastness punctuated by waveforms which, upon closer observation, may resolve into seabirds. flotsam and jetsam, a distant ship. It is the void into which we project our gods.
In our thoughts the forest has a similar uniformity, this one green and brown, but it more quickly resolves into a collection of particulars: species of tree: the spire bald cypress, the broad live and water oaks, the varieties interspersed like the people in the streets of the city of great trees, the squirrels and common birds which also make it home, cardinal and blue jay.
The gods we people here are smaller, closer, something like a deer seen in the woods: Pan and Dionysus, Cernunnos, Vidar. The first pair closer to ourselves in spirit, given to mirth, to wine and love at every opportunity. Vidar is “the silent god,” like the vast quiet of a startled forest, like Cernunnos the dark wood as incarnate divinity, closer in form to the distant sky gods. And yet the green horned one will allow himself to be seen by a keen and receptive eye.
Mostly the gods, old and new, are as distant as the ocean horizon. The forest gods and their attendant spirits—satyrs and fauns, the weirder creatures of the north like Wolpertinger—are a palpable presence in the woods, close but hidden by the crowded trees. Oceans, great mountains, a grand canyon: these inspire disconcerting awe. This is a natural reaction for people who place their gods in the sky, see wonders as the work of a nameable Creator, perceivable in His works but beyond reach.
In the forest the distance and scale are reversed. One can reach out and touch, hear the near sounds, smell the earth and what blossoms there. To enter into the woods is an immersion, a baptism which like the Christian ritual is more than just an encounter with water if you are ready to receive the spirit. The forest surrounds you as water does when you enter it, embraces you if you are receptive and ready, will fill you with its Spirit and you will leave to return go the sooty streets transformed, closer to one and whole.
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