chapter 1

The Cocoon (MARCH-April)

music: Erik Satie

I like trees more than people. In my backyard, there’s an oak tree that has become my refuge. I lean against his sturdy trunk, smiling when I feel my t-shirt scrunch up against the rough edges of peeling bark—he feels my presence. And I love his cool, earthy smell. I imagine him younger and smaller, like a magical best friend I could go walking with, sharing our stories. Everything about this tree feels and smells honest. Unlike people, trees can’t lie, which is probably why I love them so much. 

Settling in between two large roots that stick out on both sides of me, I lean back and open the book I’ve brought to read:  

“The mass of men lead lives of quiet desperation…the old have no advice to give to the young.”

I think for the millionth time that Thoreau, as always, nails it. My 8th grade English teacher, who assigned us a book with excerpts from Walden, told us at the beginning of the semester that he thinks Walden is, (I’m not quoting exactly), about a man who discovered a love of the outdoors after living in the woods for a period of time. It goes without saying that, if he believes Thoreau was that simple, I’m more qualified to teach Walden than he is.  

Grinning at the thought, I look up into the late afternoon sky and lose myself in cloud formations. I see Thoreau living alone on Walden Pond, looking up at the very same sky, lying on tall grass outside his cabin, while he imagines all his readers who will one day discover Walden and feel so grateful to him. I stare at his face on the book cover, then scooting down to lie on the grass, look up and gaze into the clouds, hoping to see him face to face.  Hoping to know him as he knows me. Now I wonder if we really do see each other—here and now, in a magical moment where past and present come together, losing ourselves in the blue sky, seeing each other through a magical looking glass in the clouds. Is it really possible? Is the world more peculiar than we imagine?

Suddenly, Satie’s music begins playing in my head.  A musical background for my magical vision.  I fell in love with his Gnossiennes in 4th grade, and I still love him. What is this magic that makes us believe that something of a writer or a composer is here with us now, as we read their book or hear their music?  And why do I connect Satie with Thoreau?  When I read deeply, or listen closely, who or what is it that actually shows up and hangs out with me? 

The truth is, I have a thing for dead people. They encourage us to hear a different drummer and move with that rhythm. And they also won’t stab you in the back or break your heart, like when Mom and I flew with Dad to New York the week of Thanksgiving break so we could hang out with his dying grandmother and say goodbye. Every few weeks he flies to New York, spending time with her until she died in March. What Mom and I didn’t know is that Dad met some young artist out there, spending time with her too. Just before spring break, he drives to Brooklyn with all his stuff, then calls us when New York went under Covid lockdown to say he wouldn’t be coming back.   

How can you live a lie for months with the people who love you most? I know the answer: it’s what adults do.  When they tell us to grow up, they’re actually saying, “Growing up means lying to yourself.  Then lying to others becomes easy.” It’s how you fit into society. Just ask Thoreau.  

Now it’s April and they’ve closed school, so eighth grade is online. Every morning I log on to watch tired faces ask tired questions- about algebra, the periodic table, the constitution, and everything around me turns grey. I lost both my girlfriends when I stopped answering their texts and emails, telling them I needed space. No matter who shows up on my computer screen, I’m still alone in my bedroom, hanging out with random invisible friends.  

Looking at my own empty, lonely life I think:  everything is meaningless. What did I get from all my studies- it’s like more knowledge brings more sadness. And the love I shared with Dad? Or all the work practicing piano and falling in love with my favorite composers? Playing piano while trying to recreate the magic I once felt feels like chasing the wind. Or like a dog, chasing her tail, going nowhere. A caterpillar crawling back into her cocoon.