Scientists and philosophers have struggled for years to define our relation to reality, or even to decide what “reality” might be. The rest of us mostly muddle through the daily experience of our existence. For a writer, perceptions of reality are also important, as it’s easier to write about what we have perceived than what we have persuaded ourselves to imagine.
It’s hard to imagine that some authors are not born with an innate advantage in this regard, and the examples come easily to mind: Louis Carroll, J.R.R. Tolkein, J.K. Rowling, and all the rest. But perhaps that’s only part of the picture. As has often been observied by others before, it’s not just about the mental eyes that you’re born with, but also whether you allow yourself to fully use what you have.
I was reminded of that truth this morning when my wife and I took an early morning walk along the boardwalk that threads through Corkscrew Swamp, a wonderful, 13,000 acre Audubon sanctuary in southwest Florida that preserves the last remaining stand of mature Bald Cypress in the world.
It’s an astonishingly beautiful and unworldly place, as you can see here – the kind of secret haven where one could imagine everyday wildlife morphing effortlessly into mythical beasts without their, or your, noticing the transformation.
Or at least I realize this now. During our walk, I was being more analytical, looking for flora and fauna I’d never noticed before rather than absorbing the mystery of the hush, punctuated only by insect and bird sounds, or luxuriating in the beams of light that streamed through the spaces between the trees before revealing secret channels amid the still, clear water pooling everywhere around us.
My aloofness to the otherness of the scene struck home when an orange butterfly, sparkling through those same shafts of light, tumbled by, making it’s delicate, erratic course through the gently moving air.
Recalling how incredibly the same creatures make their way through even gusty winds, regardless of their insubstantiality, I observed that a butterfly was a completely improbable creature. My wife, however, said to her they provided an example of magical reality.
I had to admit that she had the better of me with that reflection. For the rest of our amble through the dimly lit forest, now silent but for the faint whisper of this year’s dying cypress needles filtering down from above, I tried to experience the balance of our visit through her eyes rather than my own.
Nice link to the images, thanks! Yeah, butterflies do seem to have the most delicate power of combining worlds. Sheila and I’ve been in Vermont a few weeks (our last night tonight before heading back to Austin), and despite the incredible beauty all around, the sudden flutter of one yellow butterfly is all it takes to shake us out of whatever we are into, and to another world. Thanks Andrew, so glad you shared your wife and yours experience (smiles).
Almost makes you want to write a haiku, doesn’t it? I’ll leave that to AshiAkira, though (he’s better at it than I am): http://ashiakira.wordpress.com/new-posts/
Andrew–
We used to have a place in Naples, so I’m familiar with Corkscrew (and Shark Valley). A great place, thanks for the story. I remember a telescope set up on that boardwalk, aimed at a tree. I bent to the eyepiece, and saw an enormous owl looking–I swear it–right through the lens at me. This sort of thing never leaves you–I hope. As for your wife and the butterfly (forgive the ex-English instructor in me), but it alerts me to the permanent importance of punctuation: how did she know it was a “her”?
Lovely post. I wrote recently about hearing ‘sirens’ underwater while diving, and the importance of writers being open to the strangeness of the world. Sometimes you step outside and the world has transformed itself; the air itself shimmers with some force of aliveness that colours everything with a sense of sentience; it always takes me by surprise, but never fails to delight, or inspire, or feed my soul. I’m glad to read that someone else has seen a similar thing, has experienced the strange miracle of life.
Touche! You are of course quite right. I suppose that the “they” should have been an “it” while we’re at it – and I’m usually quite fussy about not using “they” as a stand in for he or she. Of course, an ex-English instructor might then ask me how I knew that it had been neutered, so perhaps there’s something to be said for the use of the indefinite and inaccurate “they” after all.
Thanks for your comment (and for keeping me on my grammatical toes).
And a lovely comment as well – thank you for sharing it.
There are some scenes I remember from early childhood that continue to delight me today, many years on. The quintessential example, for me, is the silhouette of branches against a horizon just at dusk.
I still remember the particular hillside where I first appreciated the exquisite sharpness of that dark tracery against she vibrant, dark blue and silver halo of a cold and pristine winter night. It was magic then, it’s magic now, and it will be magic for as long as there are someone’s eyes to witness it.