Excerpt from Does the Noise in My Head Bother You?
A few years ago, I found a moss bed for sale at this lady's little store in New London. The place was full of nature stuff—and has a big wooden arch in front and giant bird wings. The bed is made of twigs, with a moss mattress, grouse feathers for
pillows, a wooden nest, an ostrich egg cracked in half with a little
message on it, and the prints of the fairies that were born on the
bed. We kept it in the house so my two children, Chelsea and
Taj, would see it and just know that fairies were born on that bed.
They'd say, "For real?" and I'd say, "For real."
I bought the two fields I used to go walking in. I haven't
gone out into the woods lately to see if they've been touched;
I'm afraid to find out if it's all still there as I remember it. But I
grew up with these creatures. I was alone in the forest, but I was
never lonely. That's where my first experiences of otherness came
from, of the other world. My spiritual ideas didn't come from
the Lord's Prayer or church or pictures in the Bible, they came
from the stillness. The silence was so different from anything I
had ever experienced. The only noise that you heard in a pine
tree forest was the gentle whistling sound of the wind blowing
through pine needles. Other than that, it's just quiet...like after
a fresh snow...it really quiets down in the woods...cracking
branches...nothing. It's like when I took acid—I felt the wind
brushing against my face although I knew I was in the bathroom
and the door was closed. This was Mother Nature talking to me.
I would walk through the woods and walk and walk. I would
find chestnut trees, fairy rings of mushrooms, bird's nests made
with human hair and fishing line. I would imagine I was in the
jungle in Africa and climb up on the gates at the entrances to
the big estates and sit on the stone lions (until someone shouted,
"Get down from there, kid!").
Published on December 16, 2011