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Singing to Deer
by Patricia Monaghan |
At solstice, the woods were bright in a snowy way, the
sky pearl gray above the stately maples and gnarled burr
oaks. An Alaskan marooned in the urban Midwest, it took
me years to find this nearby patch of relatively
undisturbed land where I can sense the power of
wildness. Now I go there often, watching the seasons
unfold their changeful unchanging patterns in the
increasingly familiar forest.
I especially like to walk among the sleeping trees in
the half-lit silence of winter dawns. The trail I follow
winds and twists, new patches of mixed woodland
appearing at every turn. That morning, I reached a point
where the path turns sharply left to follow a small
ravine. In spring, ephemeral ponds—lively with
salamanders, loud with frogs—form in the creases of
the forest there. But in frozen winter, I expected
nothing beyond silence and wind.
So I did not see them at first, three deer beside
three empty larches. When I made them out—gray-dun
hides against a gray-dun world—they were motionless,
white tails aloft like flags of distress. I stopped in
my tracks, thinking how lucky I was to meet the animal
my Celtic forebears called the spirit of wildness on
that auspicious day.
I often encounter deer on my morning walks. The woods
are close enough to roads and homes that we humans are
no strangers to them. But like any animal of the
suburban wild—squirrel or opossum or raccoon—the
deer keep their distance. An instant after they see me,
they bound silently away, their white-flag tails on high
alert.
But this morning, the deer only stared at me across
the ravine. To the left stood a tall stately doe; to the
right, an older heavier one; in the center, one of the
previous spring’s fawns, all gangly adolescence. Huge
soft ears held high, they cast dark liquid gazes at me.
And did not run.
Desire burst in my heart: to speak to the deer, to
tell them how beautiful they were, to thank them for
bringing wildness to the edge of the vast city. To speak
from my heart, my own little wild heart, to theirs. To
celebrate the season with them.
But I stood silent, for I do not speak the language
of deer. I stared silently at them, awaiting the
inevitable flight. But moments stretched out like
fingers of light from the rising sun, and the deer did
not run away.
Then, for no reason I can easily explain, I began to
sing, my voice loud in the silent forest. A plaintive
minor-keyed medieval song sprang to my lips, a holiday
carol I’ve known since girlhood. Lo how a rose e’er
blooming, from tender stem hath sprung. . . It came a
floweret bright, amidst the snows of winter, when
half-spent was the night.
I thought the sound of my voice would frighten the
deer away, but I wanted to speak to them, and music
seemed the only way.
Just as I expected, they began to move. But not
swiftly. And not into the forest. Not away from me at
all.
No. One slow step at a time, the deer moved towards
me.
When I started singing, they were perhaps fifty feet
away. By the time I began the second verse, they were
half that distance. By the time I finished the song, the
deer stood just across the ravine.
In the sudden silence at the song’s end, three
tails went suddenly up again, sounding a silent alert.
So I began another song. Tails went down, ears moved
slightly forward. Dawn light emblazoned lemon and melon
stripes upon the snow as three deer listened to carol
after carol after carol.
A quarter-hour passed and still they did not move. I
kept singing.
It was not the deer but me who ended our encounter.
The sky had moved from pearl to sherbet to azure, and I
had promises to keep. I thanked the deer for listening
to my dawn chorus. The sound of my words shook them
awake. Tails went up, forelegs tucked up, and in an
instant they were gone.
In the silence, I stared into the gray forest. Only a
few months earlier, standing below a high-massed
mountain glacier I have known since childhood, now
shrinking fast away, its ancient snows surging down to
the gray sea in cold torrents, I had felt overwhelmed
with hopelessness. Do we only take from nature, giving
nothing in return? If so, what use are we? Why should
the universe continue to provide for us, if we are such
ungrateful children?
But there on the edge of a tiny ravine, hope washed
over me like light. Perhaps there is a reason for our
being. Perhaps what we give our lovely blue earth is
song. Beauty. Art. Perhaps that is the reason we were
created: to entertain the universe. Perhaps the great
spirit is amused and touched, thrilled and delighted by
our childlike creativity. Today we leave art to the
professionals: to those with beautiful voices and firm
bodies and exciting visions. But perhaps art is not
frozen moments of perfection but the process of creation
itself. Perhaps we were put here to pleasure the world,
making art as spontaneously and joyfully as children
drawing great yellow suns with wax crayons. Perhaps we
should all be singing more, and dancing, and painting
with bright colors, and chanting out poems. Perhaps we
silly wonderful amateurs most please the universe when
we act that way.
© 2003 Copyright Patricia
Monaghan. All Rights Reserved.
Patricia Monaghan, one of the leaders of the contemporary earth spirituality movement, has spent more than 20 years researching and writing about alternative spiritual visions of the earth. Raised in Alaska, where much of her family still lives, she considers herself blessed to have learned the ecology of the taiga, the subarctic forest, in her youth. She was a writer and reporter on science and energy-related issues before turning her attention to the impact of myth on our daily lives.
The worldwide vision of the earth as feminine–as a goddess, called Gaia by the Greeks–led her to recognize the connection between ecological damage and the oppression of the feminine. Much of her work since that time has explored the role of feminine power in our world, in an inclusive and multicultural way. Her newest book, Wild Girls, focuses on the revival of girl power.
In addition to her exacting research, Patricia is an award-winning poet whose work has been set to music and is performed around the world. She is also an acclaimed lecturer who has appeared at hundreds of universities, festivals, bookstores and community centers around the United States and Europe. A longtime member of the Society of Friends (Quakers), she is delighted to have been born on Susan B. Anthony's birthday; Patricia practices several forms of meditation daily and has co-written a book on the subject.
An avid traveler, Patricia has researched earth spirituality and goddess worship on three continents. She has traveled widely in Europe, especially in Ireland; she holds dual US/Irish citizenship and has edited two anthologies of contemporary Irish-American writing. She is at work on a book on Irish spiritual geography and has recently completed editing a book of essays on Irish spirituality.
The widow of acclaimed novelist Robert Shea (Illuminatus!; Shike; Shaman), Patricia lives in Chicago. She is a member of the Resident Faculty at DePaul University's School for New Learning, where she teaches science and literature. Patricia is a reviewer for Booklist, the Journal of the American Library Association.
Patricia's hobbies include gardening, camping, too many crafts to fit in one closet, apparently endless interior decorating and rehab, and talking with her friends. Her theme parties are locally famous.
Email Patricia at: pmonagha@wppost.depaul.edu
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