Lose the Thread

Rocky trail up Wildcat Mountain, NH

perdre le fil…lose the thread

A hush settles like steamed milk over the rustic nook of this indie coffeehouse. I can finally think, sort of. Thoughts slosh in and out like a post-storm puddle being pummeled repeatedly by the nonchalance of passing car tires. My pencil is poised above notebook paper, ready for my written words. I’m trying to conjure up the mountain forest of New Hampshire—its pine-scented breath; its rugged, relentless trails; its growling, tear-inducing wind; its peaks that paper punch the sky. Yet, I’m distracted, by the near, Haute Coffee in Concord, MA, rather than drawn to the peaks and ridges of the further away. I lose the thread. I note the vibrant orange of the vase with the tiny dried flowers—white, little clusters that look deceptively real—nesting on my corner table. I let the low murmur of the baristas chatting during a momentary lull wash over me. I sip the warmth of the hearty black tea from the ceramic café mug that is doubling as mittens for my chronically cold hands. I feel the darkened-with-age wood beams lining the ceiling, as if I were running one of my hands along their grainy finish.

Again, I lose the thread…perdre le fil. This short French phrase handwritten by an artist below a tightly coiled yet unspooling circle of soft, pencil-gray lines on a simple off-white square tile (see photo). A tile of a continuous maze with one way in and out, like the intricate handy work of a diligent orb-weaving spider, purchased at a local artist collective one blustery, sleet-filled April day in Montreal. Perhaps perdre le fil is just a ball of woolen yarn, ready to be formed by adept hands into a cozy winter scarf. Or, perhaps, it represents an ominous and arduous path winding through all the yesterdays, spilling out at the knife’s edge between past and present, indecision and decision, backward and forward…the thread both ending and beginning.

“Unspooled from the forest at trail’s end, I will stand at the beginning of open space...”

Then, as if belayed on climbers’ rope, I find the thread. I’m in Gorham, New Hampshire, surrounded by dark-green foliage and metamorphic rock; the call of the open summit above pushing me along a challenging path. I stare wide eyed at an almost imperceptible trail cut steeply into the rocks of Wildcat Mountain. This is a marvel of engineering, a shared endeavor between nature and human trail builders, a hidden gem of the forest. I take a photo (see photo)…and a pause. The air is thick and overcast, a triple-H summer day—hazy, hot, and humid. I’m exhausted from the hike up to here—my legs scraped from teetering rocks and low-growing branches, my muscles sore, my mouth dry. Salty streams of sweat are cascading down the side of my face like Arethusa Falls. So, I dig deep. I visualize the expansive view that awaits me above treeline, the haze enhancing the feeling of remoteness as it cloaks the traces of human activity down below. Unspooled from the forest at trail’s end, I will stand at the beginning of open space; the summit will soothe the scrapes and achy muscles and wipe my mental slate clean for the trek back down.

 the trail is the thread,

the ball of yarn of yesterdays,

the woven web of spider’s lace

trail, thread,

beginning, end,

beginning, end, beginning…

I take a long, slow drink from my water bottle, wishing it was cooler on my uncharacteristically hot hands. And, as if the lights have come up in the movie theatre as the credits begin to roll, I’m back at Haute Coffee—thread lost, ceramic mug now drained and cool to the touch, writing time waning like the daylight of winter, February. Merde.

Plum Indie Blog pairing: “You’re Gonna Find,” one of my own Ellen Gibson-Kennedy songs. Its pep-talky lyrics are a good match for this post.