Posted by: Kathryn Hulick | April 29, 2008

To Walk the Path

Moxie Falls, Maine. August 19, 2004.

There is mist in the hollows of my bones.  It fills me up to the tips of my fingers, rising at the sound of the waterfall, then settling as I rotate each joint.  Wrists, elbows, shoulders, neck, hips, knees, ankles.  The mist condenses into running, rushing water in my veins.  I awake.

Where am I?

Memory returns with the whistling of wind through baby spring leaves and feathery pine needles.  The trees are taller since I last opened my eyes.  The trees are taller and the river deeper.  Time has etched out all trace of the path I followed out of the city.

Has the city, too, grown taller?  Or has it sunk into the earth, buried like my footprints under black roots and green leaves?

I don’t want to know.

I remember the words I carried on my tongue as I walked the path.  Words of falling and burying and black roots bursting through brick.  Words of future.  “I dream a time beyond,” I told them, and they listened.  They listened as they always have, with one ear for the sounds and one for the soul.

A soul that sees future is of the future, and must walk the path.  I walked in darkness, alone, wearing the simple white robe of one who will sleep.  Medicines soaked into the hem of the robe wafted up, up, as I walked.  I felt buzzing in my nostrils as the scent intruded, and still I walked.

I remember the sun scratching blood from the horizon, and the rushing of a waterfall as I closed my eyes to the relief of sudden sleep.

How many years have slipped past?

“Tee-ooo, teee-ooo” calls a round, brown bird.

“Tell me the time?”  I ask.

Bird flits back and forth over the river.  The question is meaningless.  It is always now when all you have to worry about are insects and owls.

“Brown bird, do you remember the path?”  I ask, and my hands rise to a triangle on my forehead.  The gesture is unconscious, but as soon as my fingers touch I realize that I have given the bird my allegiance and trust.  If he asks something in return, I will be bound to him with my life.

I must still be groggy.  At least he’s just a bird.

“Foll-ow, foll-ow,” the bird calls.

My bones drip and moan for the first few steps, but soon I am moving with all the grace of a fish gliding through rapids.  The bird is fast, and I run to keep pace.  It is agony, it is joy to move again.

“Foll-ow, give me your name, and foll-ow,” says the bird.

He has asked.  I am bound forever to a small brown bird.

“My name is Eza Sollien Tieta.  One who dreams time.”



  1. yes! I love this photo. good story (or start to a story?) too…. I really like the line “sun scratching blood from the horizon”.

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