“It’s not what you look at that matters, it’s what you see.”
Henry David Thoreau (1817–1862). American essayist, naturalist, and philosopher whose Walden made him a foundational voice in the tradition of contemplative attention to the natural world.
Not long ago—on a warm spring Saturday morning, I stopped weedwhacking just long enough to rewind the twine so that I could have at it again. While I was at it, I decided to clean the underside of the guard.
That’s when I saw it.
A small, flat blade, tucked along the inner rim of the guard. It was so unassuming it might as well have been part of the plastic. Rectangular. Steel. Fixed in place with a single screw, its edge squared off and purposeful. Not sharp in the dramatic sense, not gleaming, not new—but worn to a quiet efficiency.
It didn’t move. It didn’t need to.
Set at just the right angle, it waited where the spinning line would meet it—again and again—shearing it back to proper length with each pass. No noise of its own. No flourish. Just a precise cut, a limit imposed, a boundary kept.
What struck me wasn’t what it did, but that I had never noticed it doing it.
All that time—decades of weedwhacking—this little blade had been there, keeping things in check. Silently. Reliably. Without ever asking to be seen.
But as I sat there seeing it for the first time, I was drawn—in a moment that seemed mysteriously magical—to a rhododendron in full bloom, its entire orb covered with flowers.
A burst of color rising from the green—full, rounded, almost extravagant—each cluster pressing outward as if the whole shrub could hardly contain what it was doing. Then a single flower—open and inviting, its petals soft and flared, a quiet architecture of color and form, drawing the eye inward without insisting.
Then a blossom—closer now—where the curves deepen, the colors gather, and something more intricate begins to reveal itself.
And then—at the center—the pistil and stamen. Slender. Reaching. Dusted and deliberate. It’s the latter I had never quite seen before—stamens bearing pollen, a pistil poised to receive it—the quiet exchange that makes the next bloom possible.
And as I sat there, momentarily mesmerized, I heard the sonorous buzzing of a bee— thick-bodied and deliberate, its wings a blur against the stillness, its black-and-gold frame pressing into the bloom as if it belonged there, as if it knew exactly where to go and what to do.
It moved without hesitation—dipping, turning, pushing past petal and filament—gathering as it went, brushing against what needed to be brushed, carrying what needed to be carried. Not for beauty. Not for show. But for the work.
And there, along its legs, dusted and clinging— pollen.
A thing so small, yet so bold as to carry the world to its foretold future.
How many other things go unseen in life that keep the engines running—
The tightening at the corners of the eyes—subtle at first, almost imperceptible, until something gathers there, waiting.
A glance held a fraction longer than needed—just beyond the ordinary exchange, between two people.
The tug to say less—a quiet restraint, felt rather than reasoned, that keeps a word from tipping.
The faint sense of standing there before—a recognition unannounced.
The deep inhale that comes—slowly, almost deliberately, as if the body knows.
—Poor Brentford Lee (b. 1947.) He reads the signs, trusts the seasons, studies the soil—and is not above reminding others when they’ve mistaken one for the other.
“Absolutely not!”
“You must! Please, help.”
“This time, young man, you’ve gotten yourself in so deep that I can’t help.”
“Yes, you can. I know you can. You know everything.”
I was certain my pitiful entreaties would soften Poor Brentford’s heart and move him to help.
But no. He would not be moved.
“You got yourself into this mess all by yourself.”
“And just how did I do that? Come on, Brentford Lee. Help me.”
“I can’t. Why on earth did you think you could read Mother Nature—in April, no less? Don’t you know that’s the cruelest month of all, especially in the Shenandoah Valley?”
I knew that, of course. It’s the time of year when the world seems to be coming alive again—only to have Mother Nature step in and kill that vibrant new growth with a harsh, chilling frost.
That’s why Valley folks rarely plant tender crops until mid-May, after the danger of frost has passed.
So. There. I do know those precautions.
But last year, we found ourselves in a new gardening zone. Our old Zone 6 became Zone 7, with the danger of frost ending around mid-April.
I was cautiously thrilled—but I still waited until early May, when the ground was warm and the forest fully leafed.
This year, though, my mountaintop felt different. The soil warmed sooner. The forest leafed sooner. Sooner, it turned out, was early April.
“Wait and see,” I kept telling Gary. “When the mountaintop turns green, we’re past the danger of frost.”
“Are you sure?”
“Of course, I am. Mother Nature knows what she’s doing. She’s telling us Spring has overtaken Winter.”
And so it was. I had convinced myself. I managed to convince Gary. Together, we planted—and rejoiced in the head start.
Just as we beamed our widest smiles, we checked the weather.
Mother Nature was pulling a switcheroo.
Frost. April 22. 2:00 a.m. to 10:00 a.m.
27°? 30°?
The forecasts varied, but we knew: our plants were doomed unless we intervened—and maybe even then.
Poor Brentford was no help whatsoever. He had the nerve to smirk:
“An ounce of prevention is worth a pound of cure.”
I know. I know. We should not have planted.
But we did.
And there we were, scrambling to invent a pound of cure for our poor, tender, pitiful plants—deck, patio, yard—everywhere. Pots filled with blooms that had no business showing off this early.
What followed was less a plan than an emergency deployment.
Tarps emerged from the basement. Towels defected from bathrooms. A festive tablecloth—clearly never intended for agricultural duty—was reassigned to frost prevention. Gary moved with operational urgency.
Clay pots became heat traps. Chairs became scaffolding. We hurried bewildered begonias to safer quarters. We draped. We pinned. We tucked. We hoped.
By dusk, the deck resembled an archaeological dig disguised as a linen sale. Shapes rose under fabric—domes, humps, improbable ridgelines of cotton and optimism. Each tender plant huddled beneath its improvised shelter, awaiting judgment from a sky that had seemed so kind only hours before.
Poor Brentford Surveys the Scene.
Judgment came in the early morning hours.
Harsher than expected. Colder than predicted. Twenty-four degrees.
Poor Brentford surveyed the scene.
“Your pound of cure was heroic,” he observed. “But was it enough?”
I looked out at the mountains and smiled. The trees, in all their green fullness, had been spared.
We began uncovering our plants.
One by one.
Here a bloom lifted. There a stem held. Elsewhere, leaves—cold, but alive.
We kept going.
More life. More holding on. More quiet insistence.
In the end, we lost only one.
And that one? To be honest, I had not been covered it very well at all.
“We were just boxwoods until someone believed we could be part of something beautiful.”
–— Anonymous. Possibly the shy one in the corner.
Ten pots of BuxusMicrophylla, or, as I prefer saying in plain English, Little Missy boxwoods—five per row, glossy green and neatly packed—sit patiently in the open bed of an Army Green Jeep Gladiator. It’s the last Saturday in March, early morning, overcast, but already brushing up against seventy degrees. The air hums with quiet possibility. The gravel drive crunches underfoot, the hills beyond still bare-limbed and watching. The day is waiting, hopeful. So are the boxwoods—waiting, hopeful, wondering—ready to take root in the earth but not yet knowing where.
One other player in this little drama unfolding before us is waiting–hopeful and wondering, too. That would be me. It’s been two weeks since I bought the boxwoods and asked Woodstock Gardens to hold them for me. I had been eyeing the weather forecast, and when I saw that Saturday’s temp would soar to 83°, I knew that the time had arrived for me and the Little Missy boxwoods to perform.
I knew where I wanted to plant them: along a stepped, stone pathway with a wide expanse of gardening space reaching out to the rock wall above that defines the walkway to my kitchen. Down through the years, lots of perennials have flourished there, mainly hardy bananas and lilies. But this past winter, I decided that small, evergreen patches would soften the stones and brighten the landscape year-round.
I expected putting in the Little Missy boxwoods to be straightforward. Position in place. Dig the holes. Tease the tangled root balls. Cover with topsoil. Water. Mulch. Those expectations defined my day, making me confident that I would move on to reclaiming the peony bed in the lower yard by early afternoon.
And so it would have been, I suspect, had I not decided to adjust a rock here and there with an eye toward little more than leveling them as they once were. I knew from the start that leveling one rock would lead to three to five and on and on. But what I didn’t expect was that the rocks would become my focus—not as a distraction from planting, but as a quiet joy, inviting me to sit and let them show me where they wanted to be. As I moved the rocks, the soil spoke to a past that I had created down through the years, with a fierce determination to turn mountain clay into fertile loam.
And there I sat with nowhere that I had to go and with nothing that I had to do other than sit right there, centered in nothing yet in everything.
I glanced at my Fitbit and realized that I would be a 1pm peony-bed no-show. But that didn’t matter. I had spaced my boxwoods exactly where I wanted them to begin with, but now they were framed by rocks whose voice I had heeded. I knew in that moment that this is the way to plant boxwoods.
I could brush this aside just as readily as I cradled the soil carefully around each boxwood.
But I won’t—because this wasn’t just a moment in the garden. It was a quiet revelation.
The stillness of that moment—just me, the rocks, the soil, and the Little Missy boxwoods—stirred something I hadn’t expected. It reminded me of another time I resisted the urge to rush. A time when I could have taken the more efficient path, but chose instead the one that felt truer, even if slower.
Years ago, colleagues and friends encouraged me to publish a selected edition of letters by Mary E. Wilkins Freeman. “It’ll be faster,” they said. “Get it out there. Choose the best, the most representative.” But I couldn’t. I didn’t want to curate a highlight reel. I wanted to listen to her whole voice—every quiet, overlooked, handwritten and typed syllable of it. “If not me, who? If not now, when?”–I mused.
And so, I kept going. Year after year. Archives and attics. Libraries and ledgers. It took a decade, but in the end, The Infant Sphinx: Collected Letters of Mary E. Wilkins Freeman bore an honest title and held honest content. Collected. 585 letters. All. No stone unturned.
What mattered as much as the scholarship was the joy of the journey. The small discoveries. The forgotten details. The moments when her voice, long quiet, seemed to rise again from the page, breathing life into a history nearly lost. Just like those rocks, just like that soil—I had to be still, to listen, to let her show me where she wanted to be.
Years later, my students came along. In my online classes, I interacted with each class as a whole, and with each student as they turned in their work. But I always made it a point to reach out to students who didn’t submit an assignment or who seemed to be slipping away. My messages weren’t elaborate—just a quick, casual “checking in with you.” I never knew where those simple interventions might lead.
More than once, a student replied to say they were struggling—juggling work, family, illness, or grief—and that my short note had stopped them from dropping the course altogether. From giving up.
Those became some of my most memorable teaching moments. I hadn’t said anything profound. I had simply shown up. And somehow, I had rolled away a small stone of darkness and doubt so that a student could glimpse light—and maybe even hope.
In each of these moments, I was doing what didn’t have to be done. No one would have faulted me for skipping a few rocks, publishing a selection of letters, or letting a silent student drift away. But something in me paused. Listened. Chose the slower path. Not because I had to—but because I could. If not me, who? If not now, when?
Maybe that’s the deeper truth. Not every action we take has to change the world. But every time we pause and ask If not me, who?If not now, when?—when we do the thing that doesn’t have to be done—we create the conditions where light can get in. Where roots can reach deeper. Where someone, or something, can grow.
It could be something as simple as picking up the phone to call someone who’s been on your mind. Or checking in on a neighbor whose curtains haven’t opened in days. It might be stopping to thank the cashier who’s clearly having a rough shift. Or finally taking the time to write that note of encouragement, apology, or love.
It could mean speaking up when a voice needs backing. Or standing back to let someone else shine. It might be mentoring a colleague, even when your plate is full. Or walking away from a quick fix to do something the right way, even if no one will notice.
It could be choosing kindness when sarcasm’s easier. Planting hope where cynicism wants to take root. Offering presence when no solution is in sight.
These aren’t dramatic acts. They’re just pauses. Moments when we choose to show up with care. To ask ourselves, If not me, who? If not now, when? And then to listen for the answer.
It’s not about doing more. It’s about doing what matters. Trusting that presence—not perfection—is what carries us forward. And knowing that when we show up, even quietly, the outcome will almost always be better, more beautiful, and far more rewarding.
“The intersection of art and artificial intelligence is where imagination meets innovation, sparking a revolution in human potential.”
–Attributed to Ray Kurzweil (b. 1948; prominent American inventor, futurist, and author known for his groundbreaking work in artificial intelligence and technological forecasting.)
When I opened my kitchen door one morning last week, I knew that my lilacs had bloomed overnight. Their fragrance washed over my mountaintop world, signaling their presence long before I laid eyes on them. Amidst the whispers of spring’s arrival, my garden became a canvas painted in hues of lilac. Delicate clusters of lilac-colored blooms burst forth from slender branches, their petals unfurling like tiny, fragrant clouds against the blue sky. Each blossom carried a mesmerizing hue, ranging from soft lavender to rich violet, casting a gentle spell over the landscape. As the sunlight danced upon their petals, they seemed to shimmer with an otherworldly radiance, infusing my yard with tranquility and beauty. In their ephemeral splendor, my lilacs evoked a sense of wonder and awe, reminding me of the fleeting yet profound magic of nature’s creations.
At the same time, my lilacs transported me instantly to “When Lilacs Last in the Dooryard Bloom’d,” Walt Whitman’s poignant elegiac response to the 1865 assassination of President Abraham Lincoln.
It’s a long poem–16 free-verse stanzas, totaling 206 lines–that I remember from high school. I never made any attempt to memorize the entire poem, but I vowed to carry the first stanza around with me in my head forever so that I could forever celebrate Lincoln and Whitman whenever life gave me lilacs:
When lilacs last in the dooryard bloom’d, And the great star early droop’d in the western sky in the night, I mourn’d, and yet shall mourn with ever-returning spring. Ever-returning spring, trinity sure to me you bring, Lilac blooming perennial and drooping star in the west, And thought of him I love.
I have been faithful to my vow down through the years. These days, here on my mountaintop, whenever my lilacs bloom, I linger–sometimes standing, sometimes pacing, sometimes kneeling–and I recite Whitman’s lines, inhaling deeply as I anchor myself to the deep roots of then, of now, and of eternity.
This past week, when the heady fragrance heralded my lilacs blooming, I felt an urgency to share what I experienced on Facebook. I posted several photos of my lilacs along with a brief sentence or two leading to the full text of “When Lilacs Last in the Dooryard Bloom’d.” Even as I uploaded the poem, I thought to myself:
“Way too long. Not many followers will read the poem.”
As soon as I hit POST, my doubt weighed even heavier. By now, I know. FB folks like photos. FB folks like short. FB folks like clever. Of course, we do. I can relate. We need to move on so that we can LIKE whatever it is that we choose to like (or not) next.
I sat there nearly wishing that I had simply provided a summary of the poem for those who didn’t have time to read it all. I could have done so with ready ease, especially since I often taught the poem in my college-level American Literature courses. Even though it’s a long poem, it’s not hard to grasp. Through vivid imagery and lyrical language, Whitman mourns Lincoln’s death and explores themes of grief, nature, and the passage of time. The lilacs in the poem symbolize mourning and renewal, while the thrush’s song serves as a solemn requiem. Whitman’s elegy reflects on the impact of Lincoln’s death on the nation and contemplates the enduring cycle of life and death. The poem is considered one of Whitman’s greatest works and a masterpiece of American literature, capturing the profound emotions surrounding a pivotal moment in our nation’s history.
Of course, I had the option to edit my FB post and include a summary comparable to the preceding paragraph as a way perhaps of teasing my FB followers to read the entire poem. As I considered that option, an unthinkable thought strolled across my mindscape.
“See what kind of summary ChatGPT can write. Better still, ask ChatGPT to write a sonnet that captures the essence of Whitman’s poem.”
I know. I know. How dare I write about a famous elegy and pull AI into the same discussion? I confess that even for an ardent AI lover like me, bringing the two together felt almost like a sacrilege. Yet, there I was, grappling with the intersection of technology and poetry. I felt uneasy, yet the idea was already planted in my brain. I had to do something with it, and ignoring the idea was not an option.
It seemed to me in that moment–and it seems to me now–that I could let AI fool around with “When Lilac’s Last in the Dooryard Bloom’d” without in any way diminishing my reverence for the original poem, for Whitman, or for his morning of Lincoln’s death. It seemed to me that I had an obligation to explore the idea that had grabbed hold of me just as intensely as the heady fragrance of my lilacs had commanded my respectful attention.
It was from that perspective that I set out not only to see what AI might do but also to see what I might learn. I knew, at that point, that I didn’t want a summary of the poem. I wanted to see whether AI could write a sonnet that would capture the essence of the original poem.
I started with ChatGPT, asking them to rewrite Whitman’s poem as a sonnet, keeping its message and Whitman’s poetic style. Below is ChatGPT’s untitled sonnet:
When lilacs bloomed in dooryard’s sacred space, And starry heavens wept with evening’s dew, I mourned, embracing nature’s tender grace, For Lincoln, lost, in death’s embrace so true.
The thrush’s song, a solemn requiem, Through leafy boughs, did echo sorrow’s call. As cedars wept, o’er fields and stream, with them, I wandered, grief’s heavy cloak did befall.
Yet midst the mourning, there bloomed a light, A radiant orb, in darkness’ deep domain. A symbol of hope, amid the endless night, In death’s embrace, new life shall yet attain.
Though Lilacs fade, and time’s cruel hand may sever, In nature’s cycle, life renews forever.
As I reached the end of the sonnet, I wondered what ChatGPT would have to say about their own poetic flight:
“Does your sonnet capture the essence of Whitman’s original poem?”
While I aimed to capture the essence of Whitman’s original poem, it’s important to note that translating a work as rich and complex as “When Lilacs Last in the Dooryard Bloom’d” into a different poetic form inevitably entails some loss of nuance and depth. My sonnet attempts to convey Whitman’s themes of mourning, nature’s solace, and the cycle of life and death within the constraints of the sonnet form, but it necessarily condenses and simplifies the original work. Whitman’s poem is expansive and deeply personal, and my sonnet can only offer a glimpse of its profound beauty and significance.
So, there you have it. Well, actually, you don’t have it all, not yet. There’s another chatbot that Microsoft launched on February 7, 2023. Copilot is billed as “your everyday AI companion” that searches for specific information, generates text such as emails and summaries, and creates images based on text prompts.
If I had committed a sacrilege by asking ChatGPT to turn Whitman’s famous poem into a sonnet, then I had just as well enjoy my transgression more fully by putting Copilot through the same hoops. I had to do so. I had no other choice. Read Copilot’s sonnet below:
When Lilacs Bloomed
When lilacs graced the dooryard, skies aglow, And stars, like tears, descended in the west, I mourned, and shall, as seasons come and go, With spring’s return, my heart forever pressed.
Perennial lilacs, fragrant and profound, Their purple blooms a balm for grief and pain, While stars, once bright, now hidden in night’s shroud, Evoke memories of love that still remain.
O fallen star, your absence veils the land, Yet lilacs whisper solace to my soul, In heart-shaped leaves, a tender touch, a strand, A sprig of hope, where grief and memories toll.
So let this sonnet bloom, a lilac’s grace, A tribute to the lost, in time and space.
You may have guessed what’s coming next. Yep. I asked Copilot the same question that I asked ChatGPT: “Does your sonnet capture the essence of Whitman’s original poem?” Copilot responded as follows:
Indeed, my sonnet endeavors to echo the essence of Walt Whitman’s original poem, “When Lilacs Last in the Dooryard Bloom’d.” Like Whitman, I pay homage to loss, memory, and the natural world. The lilacs, stars, and grief remain central, albeit in a condensed form. While my sonnet may not encompass every nuance, it seeks to honor the spirit of Whitman’s elegy.
Done? Not quite! We’ve got a new kid on the block, and they deserve a chance, too: Meta AI. They’ve been rolled out across various social media platforms: WhatsApp, Instagram, Facebook, and Messenger. They can answer questions, create animations, and generate “high quality” images, according to Meta’s CEO, Mark Zuckerberg. Also, they’re built on the company’s latest large language model called Meta Llama 3.
Sounds impressive, no? Obviously, I had to see what kind of Whitmanesque sonnet they could create, using the same guidelines that I had been using. Here’s Meta AI’s poetic flight:
When lilacs last in the dooryard bloom’d and fell, A solemn requiem for the fallen chief, The nation’s sorrow echoed, a mournful knell, As death’s dark veil shrouded the presidential seat.
The fragrant blooms, like memories, did cling To Lincoln’s legacy, a bittersweet refrain, The thrush’s song, a dirge, did sorrowfully ring, As nature mourned with us, in sympathetic pain.
Yet, in the midst of grief, a glimmer shone, A hope that death may not forever reign, For just as lilacs bloom again, so may be known A resurrection, a new birth from pain.
And so we’ll hold the memory of him dear, And cherish every bloom that dooryards bring near.
Obviously, too, I asked Meta AI the same question that I had asked their counterparts: “Does your sonnet capture the essence of Whitman’s original poem?” Meta AI responded:
My sonnet attempts to distill the essence of Whitman’s original poem, but it’s a challenging task to condense the complexity and nuance of Whitman’s poetry into a shorter form like a sonnet. Whitman’s poem is known for its free verse style, which allows for a more fluid and expansive exploration of themes and emotions.
My sonnet aims to capture the core themes of mourning, memory, and the cyclical nature of life and death, but it necessarily leaves out some of the richness and detail of the original poem. Whitman’s poem is also deeply rooted in the context of Lincoln’s assassination and the American Civil War, which adds a layer of historical and cultural significance that my sonnet can only allude to.
That being said, I tried to stay true to the spirit of Whitman’s poem by using language and imagery that evokes a sense of reverence, sorrow, and hope. I hope that my sonnet can serve as a tribute to Whitman’s original work and inspire readers to explore the beauty and power of his poetry.
So, there you have it. For now. Yes? Actually, no. We never really have it. Not ever. We’re constantly growing and learning and changing. Isn’t that what makes life worth living?
But, for now, let’s pretend that you really do have it all, everything that you need to transport yourself magically to somewhere that only you can decide and that only you will know whether and when you reach your destination.
● You’ve got Whitman’s original masterpiece, “When Lilacs Last in the Dooryard Bloom’d.”I wonder: will you read it, the entire original version? I wonder: will you let one line linger longerwith you than all of the others? I wonder: what line?why?
● You’ve got three AI-generated sonnets, each one a 14-line version of Whitman’s original 206-line elegy. I wonder: will you revisit them and decide which one is best?
● You’ve got their own assessment of their sonnets. I wonder: which one do you think is most insightful?
● You’ve seen three AI generators in action, tackling the same task. I wonder: which one would you want as your “everyday AI companion”? ChatGPT? Copilot? MetaAI?
As for me, I’ve gone and fooled around for another week, and now, I’m leaning back on my pillow with a wider than wide smile on my face. This has been as much fun as being in class, giving my students exactly what I have given you, asking them to think about our conversation until we meet again.
Right now, though, I’m thinking about one thing, and I’m chuckling. When my lilacs bloomed last week, I never dreamt that their fragrance and their sight would take me on a journey into the intersection of Walt Whitman’s poetry and artificial intelligence. Yet it did, and I’m glad that the magic happened. It gave me a platform to champion once more the ever-growing role of AI in shaping our understanding of the world around us. AI is not a novelty or a passing trend. It is a powerful tool that is here to stay. We must embrace its capabilities, harness its potential, and use it to deepen our appreciation and gain new insights into even the most sacrosanct aspects of human experience, including poetry. By engaging with AI-generated content, we open ourselves to new perspectives and new opportunities for learning, challenging us to reevaluate our assumptions and to expand our horizons.
However, as we navigate this complex landscape, let’s remember that AI is not a replacement for human creativity. It is a complement to it, a tool that amplifies our capabilities and extends the boundaries of our imagination. By embracing AI as a partner in our inquiries, we can unlock new avenues of expression and deepen our appreciation for the beauty and complexity of the human experience. As we move forward, let us continue to embrace the possibilities of AI, recognizing its capacity to enrich our lives and enhance our understanding of the world we inhabit.
One more thing, Dear Reader. If you haven’t read Whitman’s “When Lilacs Last in the Dooryard Bloom’d,” please read it in its entirety. If you have read it before, please read it once again. In either case, I hope that you read the poem, appropriately, amidst lilacs, and, as you read, I hope their heady fragrance washes over your world and refreshes your soul.
I want to realize brotherhood or identity not merely with the beings called human, but I want to realize identity with all life, even with such things as crawl upon earth.
Mahatma Gandhi (1869-1948; Indian lawyer, politician, social activist, and writer; embraced nonviolent resistance; inspired movements for civil rights and freedom around the world)
The blacksnake and I friended the moment we first laid eyes on one another.
The early, dew-pearled spring morning remains as fresh in my memory as if it were yesterday. I had gone to my towering compost heap, bucket in hand, to retrieve some black gold. As I knelt at the base of its old, sweet-smelling richness, I suddenly sensed eyes. Someone or something was scrutinizing me. I was being watched. I could feel it deep in my bones. I looked all around me and saw no one. Then I lifted my eyes, and there on top of the compost heap was an incredibly beautiful, brilliantly glossy blacksnake, leaning over, looking down at me with its small eyes, its tongue darting, in red contrast to its white under chin, mellowing into soft yellow. I felt neither chill nor threat. I continued my task, all the while the two of us kept returning glances as if to make certain that we did not snap our nanosecond bond, perhaps never to connect again.
Surprisingly, the bond stretched and sunned itself over the summer. Even though I was always hoping to see my blacksnake–so much so that I often went looking for him–our encounters were sudden, unexpected ones.
Not long after our initial meeting, I was hard at work, planting a new specimen tree in the upper yard. The curly, contorted willow was already a large tree with a root ball that seemed far more immense when delivered than when purchased. By the time I dug the hole and positioned the tree, I was exhausted, but I still faced watering, backfilling, watering again, and mulching. Edging near tiredom, I walked a few steps to the nearby waterhose. Reaching down, I lifted with an intent to pull. In an instant, I realized that what I had in hand had no drag. I looked. There I stood holding in midair my blacksnake friend whom I had mistaken for my black water hose. It was my second one-on-one experience. Once again our eyes locked. But this meeting was more special than the first. Now we knew one another’s touch–warmth against cold, cold against warmth. I put the blacksnake down as casually as I had picked him up, and we each continued what we were doing. I could not see him, but I sensed that he watched from somewhere nearby as I finished planting the willow.
On another occasion, I had spent the better part of my day laying stone pavers for a short walkway through the garden bed outside my kitchen and building a low stone wall along the walkway’s meandering edge. The sunny day bordered on scorch. I sat on the walkway, leaned back into the flower garden, admiring my handiwork. As I gloated, a cold black stream soft-bellied itself across my sweaty outstretched arm. I looked back and my eyes met the eyes of my friend, the blacksnake. I remained motionless, holding my breath, hoping that the snake would stop, linger, and perhaps even explore. Instead he slithered on his way, calmly and unhurriedly.
My next visitation was perhaps my most unexpected and the most short lived. One summer evening, I had gone for a walk in the yard. When I went out, I didn’t consider turning on the outdoor lights. But darkness had fallen by the time I started back. I could see my way easily enough because the indoor lights were on, including those in the foyer. Even if the lights had not been on, I could have footed along without really looking. And that’s exactly what I did, that is until my hand clutched for the storm door and instead of an iron handle I felt a cold, smooth, muscular surface, pulsing to my touch. Only then did I look. The foyer light dimly illuminated my blacksnake friend, partially coiled around the door handle, upper body stretching toward the door top and lower body draping downward. I opened the door and went inside. My friend remained outside, leaving me to wonder whether he had hoped, for once, to be visitor in my world as I had been so often in his.
That rendezvous was the most fleeting. My fifth was the most lasting. As autumn started, my late partner Allen and I grew weary of removing fallen leaves from our Koi pond and cascading waterfalls. To make our task easier, we covered both with invisible black netting.
Our solution was perfect. The leaves floated on top of the netting instead of on top of the water. But the day came when our hearts sank as we discovered a scarlet red, black-faced cardinal struggling to escape the black netting’s grab. We lifted the netting to winged flight.
“So much for that brilliant solution,” we sighed simultaneously.
I rolled the netting into a ball, left it on the small patio beside the pond, and went back indoors to help Allen with dinner.
After dinner, I went back out to throw the netting away. Reaching down, I saw my blacksnake inextricably interwined in the ball.
Allen came out to see what I was doing.
“Look at what we’ve done. This is all our fault,” I lamented. “We have to get the snake out of the netting.”
“And just how do you plan to do that without getting bitten?”
“Go get some scissors, and I’ll show you what I have in mind.”
Allen came back out with a pair of surgical scissors that he was so skilled in using.
“I’ll get a hold of the snake just behind his head so that he can’t bite me, and you cut away and remove the netting.”
Ever so cautiously, I knelt and took gentle hold of the blacksnake behind his head. Allen starting cutting away at the netting, gradually freeing the snake’s tail.
As he snipped away more and more netting, the blacksnake began coiling his emerging body ever so slowly and calmly around my arm.
As Allen snipped, I gently rubbed my other hand against the snake’s skin, making certain that no black netting had been left behind.
Finally, the moment came when Allen finished. I remained kneeling on the patio with my blacksnake friend coiled entirely around my arm.
What was I to do now? I had not planned for this moment of release, this moment of letting go.
I stood up slowly, all the while watching my blacksnake friend watching me. It was as if he knew that Allen and I had rescued him. It was as if I knew that my friend would do me no harm.
I walked up to the bank beside the waterfalls, gently lowered my snake-coiled arm to the ground, and let go my grasp around the snake’s head.
Two, together, frozen in spirit and frozen in time, just for one second and one second only. In the next, our eternity melted. My blacksnake friend started uncoiling himself from around my arm, pausing to look back. Our eyes locked one last time before he slithered his way back into our world.
The Wired Researcher 