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Woodpecker
by Cecile Sarruf Forward: Woodpeckers are revered in the Atlantic Northeast and within many cultures. They are considered lucky birds that bring friendship and are a guide towards wisdom. The red on the head represents the stimulation of intellectual capacities. The “pecking” stimulates new rhythms to dance to within our visions and might be telling us to seek change in our lives. Carl Jung interpreted the woodpecker’s nest within the tree as a return to the womb, “or the liberating image of thought and desire born of introversion.” This short essay is written as a metaphor. The woodpecker represents an abusive father. I’m held captive by the creature. I must get to the lake and swim away, but I am trapped by the angry manner in which it pecks the skin of the day. My thoughts are little paper boats drifting beyond the birch trees and sugar maples, down towards the softwoods along the lakeshore, where cool calm waters lap against scattered driftwood. Tap, tap, tap, tap, tap, tap. It hammers madly into one spot, as if with purpose. It has no purpose, other than to call attention to itself. So strange and arrogant, it forgets how it is precariously perched, perpendicular to the backyard slope, which leads to my impending freedom. It grips the neck of the tree with its long claws and remains perched on its dogma like the bishop of all chess pieces. Tap, tap, tap, tap, tap, tap. It stops its madness and glares at me; its beady wild eyes lost to my very existence. I flinch. Atop its head is a pointy red hood with a peak similar to that of the KKK, its black and white striped face reflects an inflexible dualism within. It jeers. I take a step backward and almost stumble to a fall. It screams. I nervously cross and uncross my fingers and toes. It raises its voice at me again. I stiffen. It pecks the air as if it were my eye! We are at an impasse. He tightens his grip, makes threats, and then returns to the task of knifing and attacking. I must go past this point, I think to myself. I must escape this madness. Tap, tap, tap, tap, tap, tap. A dragonfly has taken the warmth of the sun and flown away with it. I feel a cool breeze, as it plays with a butterfly from wildflower to sunflower to the pale grass along the path. The butterfly has already metamorphosed, I have not. The breeze lifts my hair and kisses the back of my neck, just behind my ear. It caresses and guides me. I am barefoot, each toe explorative, careful to avoid the sting of nettle, as I walk with caution. I know where I want to go. I know where I wish to be in my solemnity. I know who I am. The creature lowers its head and drills yet another hole to make its point, while peppering the tree’s neck with permanent marks. Vicious and voraciously violent, it suddenly stops again, acutely aware of my desire to escape. It glares at me. I pretend I do not care. I pretend I am a statue. I raise my head like a shaman about to embark on a journey. It hurls absurdities at me wanting to tear my face off. I look away in saddened silence, gather and arrange my thoughts; one flower at a time. Then I carefully edge my way behind and around, slipping past my nemesis, as he argues the validity of natural law. The water is olive hued, calm and undisturbed. My breathing is shallow. I keep my wits about me. I’ve heard of melon headed children losing their ability to think straight after a sharp beak pick - picked its way into the inner workings of their emotional landscape, leaving nothing but fodder to folly. Their eyes would role away like marbles gazing upward into an abysmal sky, forever lost between willows and pine. Underfoot, I feel the earth soften, giving way and inviting me to the very edge. I hear him behind me, chastising the tree for its stupidity. Water. I break the lake’s serene surface, which mirrors the clouds above, and my reflection is but a shadow of several intermingling shadows, awakening. I wade in, cup my hands and embrace this wonderful newfound freedom. I submerge myself into the peace and quietness and cleanliness, where the sunlight softly ribbons the water’s depths and where the green algae moves to and fro in a graceful dance. This is temple, this is church, this is mosque; a holiness unto itself. I swim to the bottom, where silt slopes off, facing depths of the unknown; where truth resides. |
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