Tracks, by Kathryn Magendie

The snow shows me things on my mountain. And I want to believe, if I will be pardoned by those who matter, that my great great grandmother, a full blood Blackfoot, watches over me, teaches me how life pulses and throbs on Mother Earth. I imagine my ancestors walking softly through their woods, just as the Cherokee walk these Western North Carolina Mountains I am fortunate to live within. I step upon ground that thrums with stories ancient and true. I notice how without thinking about it, I am now walking from outside my foot to inside, a rolling motion—is this my great great grandmother’s way? I say, “Show me, Kip a ta ki, (old woman). I have lived too white! My pale skin, my white ways.” I can hear her laugh, as if to say, "You are who you are meant to be. Your blood is red. Your heart beats. Your lungs take in the same air."

I tread silent, as I don’t want to break the spell. Bear tracks, kiaayo, along the road above my log house. There are feline tracks, too, and I crouch to touch one of them—a big feral house cat? Or the Bobcat, natayo, I once saw racing across my driveway and up the incline of what is my “backyard.” I step off the road, and bend again to study the larger track. It is bear. I think, if Bear and I meet, if she isn't threatened in anyway, Bear will mostly likely run away—same as Bobcat did that day (my Bobcat sighting was rare and beautiful—I feel honored). I have respect for wild things—the respect of care and distance, not of personification of human idealization.

I finally call out, “Hey, Roger. Looks like bear tracks, and these must be a big cat, too small for Bobcat.” He comes over to look. The dogs sniff eagerly. The wind blows. The snow sparkles. The mountain, miistak, gives and takes away. I am filled with thanksgiving. The gratitude of a life full of promises, both ancient and new. I am who I am. My great great grandmother breathes warmth on my cheek, prepares to leave me, “Pookaawa, sokapii (child, be good).” I answer, “Wait! Forgive me my stumbles—on the land, on the language, on life.” She makes the branches rustle, a wave. Is gone. I walk home. I am home. The mountain accepts me.


Black Bear facts
The Bobcat
NC Museum of the Cherokee
The Blackfoot

Listening for Breaths by Kat Magendie

I stand on my mountain this morning and at a precise moment in a precise time, I know my worth. At a precise moment in a precise time, I feel contentment. I am a part of the Earth World. For when we search for the unattainable perfect we contract, the Earth World constricts; but, when we find that precise moment of contentment, the Earth World expands. And in that expansion, I feel a part of the Greater, and thus, a part of all of you. I search no further. We as human animals have desire to succeed, often for success sake. We live and love and finally die, and watch or intercede suffering, and so it is in that precise moment of contentment where the importance of who you are in this Earth World is acutely felt. If I was to lose my right leg, I would cry with rage and pain. Yet, I do not need that leg to live, and after a time I go on, I find a way. However, I cannot live without my soft organs—the lungs to breathe; the heart to pump my blood; the brain to instruct, to think, and to reveal who I am. Without my innards, I will die.

As I stand in this precise moment of contentment, I listen to my breath leave my body, and then enter my lungs again. I listen for all of your breaths. Beginning with the last exhale of the dying, to the first breath of the newborn, and then adding and adding all of your breaths and those that share Earth with us, until this is all I hear, all other noise is muffled away except for the sound of the entire Earth World of breathing. In this precise moment in time, I know the worth of the Earth World’s inhabitants. How everything breathes and lives. I find the possibilities of knowing all of you just by the familiarity of my own organs matching your organs, my red blood matching your red blood, the air I breathe out to be breathed in by you—we take in each other’s breaths. Find your precise moment of contentment, breathe, and think of me standing on my mountain thinking of you as I listen for your breaths. Listen for mine. Be grateful for each other.

(want to imagine my mountain? Smoky Mountain Photos...enjoy.)

This Moment. This Now. By Kathryn Magendie

The mountain is warm for January—a light sweater is all I need. Last week, I bundled up in long underwear and down vest, the temperature high only got to eleven degrees. Record cold then record heat, within two weeks. No matter. This is the earth and the earth turns. The earth changes. The earth breathes. As I walk our dogs, I’m not listening to the creek singing, to the birds calling out, or the way the bare branches rub together—I swear it sounds like a whale’s call. Instead, I’m thinking about all I have to do. I walk quickly, ticking off in my head: edit, write, go, be, do, find, email, call…

Kayla and Jake trot beside me, at turns sniffing the ground and then raising their snouts to the air. Kayla is getting old, her limping walk makes me sad, but her brown and tan fur remains thick and beautiful. Jake is panther-like, the muscles rippling beneath his shiny black coat. Kayla stops to sniff the grass and I tug her leash a bit. She doesn’t move, but keeps sniffing. Impatiently, I tug again, and say, “Come on, Kayla!”

And it is at that moment I catch up with myself. I see myself as from above. What’s happened to the woman who walked this mountain every morning and listened, enjoyed, experienced? Where have I gone? My dogs look at me, see that I’m not going to tug them away from new smells, and both begin excitedly sniffing in the grass—a coon? Bobcat? Deer? Bear? A visiting dog? It could be anything at all! I close my eyes, take in a deep breath. Listen. The creek rushes, filled from last night’s rain. A dove coos. To my left, old brown leaves rustle. To my right, branches touch, saw rub saw. I sway in the wind as it pushes against me, enters my ear and whispers: “I am here. You are here. This is all that is now.”

I open my eyes and spot Roger walking towards us. My husband smiles, raises a hand that says, "I’m coming. Sorry I’m late!” I smile back. I am filled—I am full. The moment catches in my chest and I inhale all the air I can to keep the moment held there. This moment. This now. This is what matters.

Breathe In the Air, Breathe Out the Gratitude, by Kathryn Magendie

A winter storm nears my mountain; a wind slams against the windows. I am snuggled inside, turn to watch the birds flocking to the feeders. It is newly 2008, and I will be joining Barbara and Nannette as we write our year of gratitude.

I think of days when I was hungry, when I didn’t have enough money to pay the bills, when I had to decide between having enough gas to get to work or going to the doctor, when I cried in the closet so no one would see me weakened by worry. Gratitude is harder when there seems little to be thankful for—except for the act of living and breathing and surviving. And now? I pay my bills, there is food in the pantry, I go to the doctor if I am sick and have the gas to get there and back. My closet holds clothes and shoes, not a sobbing woman.

Simply by the act of saying, “Thank you,” I am released from old demons. I am unchained from fear and worry. From the comfort of my couch where I am snuggled under a throw while the wild wind rushes over and across the mountain ridge, whips the bare branches, pushes against my log house, from this place of security I sigh as if an old dog on a porch and breathe out, “Thank you.” Does it matter who or what I give thanks to? No, it is only important that I breathe in the air and breathe out the gratitude. Breathe in, breathe out, in and out, in out.

A bright red cardinal looks in the window to me, I look out to it. I like to imagine it is chirping, “Thanks for the seed.” I mouth, “You are welcome.” He flies away, stomach full, I watch him, stomach full. I get up to open the door, feel the wind’s chilled blast. My face is cold, my back is warm, and all I have to do for comfort’s sake is to turn around. I turn, close the door against the wind, and smile.