Sophie Mulgrew 

The Stuff of Storybooks 

David Whythe describes his poem “Start Close In” as a reflection on “the difficult act we all experience of trying to make a home in the world again when everything has been taken away.” He muses on the idea of first steps, on minute noticings. He wonders what it means to belong: 

“Start with 

The ground 

You know, 

The pale ground 

Beneath your feet,

Your own

Way to begin 

The conversation.” 

The ground in Tacoma was rich and aged. On brisk mornings, dew drops balanced daintility atop soft pearls of earth, anticipating sunshine. Beneath stones and sprouts of split-leafed arugula the soil writhed with worms and other insects, busy with the duty of decomposure. Sometimes, as I walked barefoot through the garden, I could feel the tremble of life beneath my toes. I could sense the spreading roots of strawberries and red lettuce, holding fast to the ground that so faithfully sustained them.  

It was there, in the earth, that my love of Tacoma began, quietly, like a seed carelessly dropped from the palm of a toddler. I didn’t expect to love it. I didn’t even expect. I arrived wrecked and overwrought from another lifetime. When I tried to conjure visions of what the future might hold, I drew blanks. I had no expectation of enjoying this wild and unfamiliar place, let alone discovering within it, a home. 

Down the hill from our weather-beaten house, the earth curved gracefully around the Bay, as if embracing it. At its edges, the water lapped sleepily at outcroppings of rocks and angular assortments of driftwood. Often, as I strolled along the coast, I marveled at the placidness of it all. Unlike the ocean, the Puget Sound felt heavy – settled and steadfast in its corner of the world. It did not succumb to undue toil. 

Just up the water’s bank, the ground flattened around a snake of train tracks which extended in either direction, curling along the coastline. In the track’s time-worn wooden slats lay the memories of travelers and traders alike; eyes that cast upon that untamed landscape years before they had ever known what to call it. I still wonder about the hearts of those ancient trailblazers. The ones who dared greatly– who forged the paths and carved out the places I came to think of as my own.

When I was younger I sustained myself on imagination. Perched in the branches of dry California trees, I breathed into life a world in which I was no longer confined by the bounds of reality. I stowed away on grain-filled boxcars bound for nowhere, I rode horses bareback through fields of wildflowers. In moss-laden caves by the sea I discovered dragons and carried them home in my hoodie. 

I was perpetually dissatisfied with the constraints of my white, middle-class cul-de-sac. Where were the ravines? The unforgiving mountains? The tree branch from which to hang a swing? The only beasts to befriend were house cats, the only danger; cars. 

Years later, having reached adulthood, I cast eyes on Tacoma for the first time. A petite city resting peacefully on the shores of the Puget Sound. Rusted bridges rose in rainbows of twinkling car lights, boats took leave from their journeys in the harbor. Beyond this dollop of civilization, great swaths of green covered the landscape imbued with the soft texture of rustling leaves. Above it all, between low-hanging layers of mist, the top of a great mountain peered out over the city. I beheld this sight in reverential silence. Something inside me stirred. 

“Nature never became a toy to his wise spirit. The flowers, the animals, the mountains, reflected all the wisdom of his best hour, as much as they had delighted the simplicity of his childhood.” -  Ralph Waldo Emerson 

Every now and again, on a morning walk through the unroused neighborhood, I encountered a deer. They appeared suddenly, without sound, emerging from the lingering dew like a mirage. They would plod across driveways and planter beds, stealing timid nibbles of the most delectable offerings– at one corner a cherry tree, the next parsley. They signaled the fast-approaching dawn, visible only for the few precious hours in which the world shifted out of darkness and into light. 

My days in Tacoma were spent in bliss. I strolled through farmers markets, inspecting line-caught salmon, cider, cheeses, and zucchini blossoms. I dipped toes in the frigid water of the bay, tracing the tracks of hermit crabs and other aquatic critters. Often, if I lingered long enough watching the water, the head of a seal would pop up somewhere along the horizon. Small little things with dark, insightful eyes. I liked to think they saw me eyeing them, wondering at their life beneath the waves. 

I frequented bakeries and local ice-cream shops. I walked to pick up dinners for picnics or porch nights. I read beneath the shade of towering hemlocks. When I ventured out from our neighborhood of shingled houses, the natural world showed its true prowess. I reveled in the lushness of the foliage, the unpredictability of the landscape. Every day, the scenes took on new varieties of expression; clouds gathered grumpily, the sun shone fervid ochre. Always, the silhouette of the mountain lingered above it all like a deity, each day appearing in various degrees of distinction. 

On a weekend trip through the northern islands, I looked down from the bridge upon which we were traveling. Far below, a length of land extended out into the water in a large arc, creating within it a protected cove, seemingly untouched by human hands. Tall grasses sprang from the slope leading down to the water. In the afternoon breeze, the stalks tilted gently, as if beckoning onlookers closer. Tucked into the side on the outcropping was the mouth of a cave, framed by insets of smooth stone. I cast my eyes upon the scene, marveling at each detail of wild perfection. If there were ever a place for a dragon to live, I thought, this would be it. I wished I had brought my hoodie. 

I did not grow up in Tacoma, but it was there I found my way back to childhood. It was in Tacoma where I rediscovered wonder, bliss, and innocence. It was in Tacoma where I once again felt free. 

“In the woods is perpetual youth.” - Ralph Waldo Emerson 

Sometime in late spring, after discovering my mother’s attempts to kill the caterpillars feasting on our garden, I set about to save them. I sat in the soil, carefully plucking the little beings off basil and brussel sprouts. When they had all been collected, I dropped them into a large glass jar replete with a healthy serving of greens. I covered the opening with punctured plastic wrap, set the mini-ecosystem on the table, and waited. 

Months later I sat at the same table, eyes fixed on a wavering chrysalis - the first of the bunch to move. I watched enraptured as the tiny structure peeled open, revealing within the feeble, nearly translucent body of a butterfly. The tiny creature spread its crumpled wings and pulled itself on feeble legs away from the cocoon’s remnants. With a delicate hand, I extracted the butterfly from the jar, and carried it to the yard. It paused as it was doused in sunlight, wriggling in reaction to this new sensation. And then - as  if suddenly remembering - it spread its wings and lifted effortlessly in the clear air, to rediscover the world; reborn.