Narrative- Amazon Woman

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Narrative- Amazon Woman

I need to recover a rhythm in my heart that moves my body first and my mind second, that allows my soul to catch up with me. I need to take a sacred pause, as if I were a sun-warmed rock in the center of a rushing river.

I am crouching still near a tree on a loamy ridge, my two hands spread around the trunk. I am feeling grateful for this tree that I remember because of its mossy smell and thick crevassed bark. It tells me that the beaver pond is near where one white pine shoots 100 feet up out of the tannic water, which means I am close to camp and food and sleep.

I get to the pond’s edge, across from the point where my tent sits. There are no trails and the boreal forest is thick with scrub pine and dead-fall. Early afternoon sun brings out the wave of deer flies; I shake my head so that my two braids might hit the little buggers in mid-air. Undeterred, one begins to chew on my shoulder blade and prickers dig into my shins. I can see my tent across the pond, 100 yards as the crow flies, probably a mile walk around the edge. I decide to take off my clothes, leave them on this rock by the shore, swim across and come back for my things later in my canoe. Even though the whine of the deer flies’ wings beating around my head intensifies, I just stare at the water. It is only two feet deep here at the edge, but it is so dark that I cannot see the bottom. Darker shapes appear as I stare, including a large fallen pine tree which leads from the shore and disappears into the darkness. A fear takes hold of me, as it does every time I contemplate diving into this dark water. I shake my head to loosen its grip, feel a deer fly land on the small of my back and I dive. I swim as hard as I can, my heart bang...

... middle of paper ...

...Today I am smiling wide and proud of this body that carried boat and gear down to the water’s edge; that paddled against the wind across the bay to the foot of the wetland stream. The body that hoisted the laden canoe over five beaver damns, that carried boat and canoe up the trail for a mile to the secret pond; that sleeps comfortably in a tent alone out here listening to the hoot owl, and the loons and the cacophony of bullfrog music; the body that jerks upright at midnight with the sound of a buck’s snort and heavy stomp of his hoof; the body that gets up early and bushwhacks to the top of the mountain.

I lie down on the warm rock at the edge of the pond and I close my eyes. My breath feels easy and light, my belly is soft and where a hard gnarled knot used to be under my sternum, a warmth spreads beyond my skin, around the blue sky and sun and back in again.

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