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Tales from the Other Side of Language 77 My critical East Coast attitude supports the continual natural observation of the crow and his mate. Such observations were what I did and taught in my baby nursery: watching, articulating and recording the details of behavior and relationship, allowing theory to evolve from observation, not placing theory first. My developing relationship with the crow is sweet and tender, crow and woman, living as neighbors. There is a non-verbal, non-mental language between us, interest and even affection across our large species differences. This non-verbal, sensory relating to another being is intriguing and curiously satisfying for me.
78 Ruth Codier Resch Without Utterance: The two Douglas firs cloister the front of my house. A branch of one brushes my head, no matter how I prune it back, as I walk across the little stone path in the grass to my door. As I set aside the verbal and allow myself to sense into the sensory world around me, the crow and now the trees seem to make relationship with me. I step across the stones to my door this dusky evening and sweep the soft fir needles from my hair. I can think whatever I want about this being only in my imagination, but the sensation in my body is of receiving. It is like having the attention of a wise elder that I haven’t asked for but nonetheless get. When my body, not my mind, responds with “Yes, thank you!” to the fir, there is pleasure, some new delight received. I have no mind logic for this. One of the firs drops all of her limbs in a terrible ice storm. Many hundreds of trees in my neighborhood have simply toppled over with the great weight of ice. But this one does not fall on my house, which is so near it, but rather drops all of her branches, leaving a naked pole. I am relieved, but also touched by this. I know in my cognitive mind that the fir did not act with intention, but still, so many trees have simply fallen, on cars, telephone lines, houses. In the night I set out little candles around her, make snow caves for them against the wind. They blow out, and I light them again and again. I wonder what the neighbors think, but I am unaccountably sad. My house feels naked without her presence. A week later I sit in meditation with my drum, quietly sounding. As I painted my way though the verbal intensity of many Robert Bly conferences, I also learned a bit of drumming. It is now my private way of bringing in the New Year, to drum from ten to one or two, until sleep comes and falls into my bones. At nine I call Jake in New York, and she holds the phone out her window for me to hear the harbor boats come alive there with their midnight voices of jubilation. The New Year is coming. Deep into the drum, I feel into the turning of
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We must be willing to give up the l
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LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS Weeds, ink dr
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PART ONE: THE PRECIPITOUS ABYSS
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is now. Tales from the Other Side o
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lives around him in deep and import
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“Without Utterance is a testimoni
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