-Emily Dickinson

 

Within moments of taking this picture I expected it to disappear. The find was too precious, too hidden, and oh so pale. I almost looked around to see who was watching me, and so unseen I shared a moment with this trio of ghost white shapes.

They are called Indian Pipes and they live in the darkness of a forest needing no chlorophyll and surviving on decaying matter and borrowing nutrients from certain fungi and trees.

Emily Dickinson wrote to her friend Mabel Loomis Todd,

“That without suspecting it you should send me the preferred flower of life, seems almost supernatural, and the sweet glee that I felt at meeting it, I could confide to none,”

Mabel had sent Emily a painting of the Indian Pipes on a black panel, thinking they were the perfect symbol of the poet and her poetry that had been hidden from the world.

This discovery brought me back to early spring when we all slowly peeked out from under the covers and tried to greet each other in new and somewhat unfriendly ways. No hugs, kisses or handshakes, but muffled greetings from behind our homemade masks. We saw people in passing on our daily walks, and across the time zones on our screens. Since those early days of the virus we have upped our mask styles and we meet friends outside for coffee and drinks.

The Indian Pipe sighting stuck with me and reading about this odd little plant I thought about how we also rely on our surroundings for nourishment, and we count on each other. It has been difficult to be there for the people who need us; it is a daily wonder to think of workers, teachers, nurses and all those who have been bravely out in the world. It is as special as finding the elusive Indian Pipe.