M. E. Schuman - The Understory

The Understory: Plants in the understory comprise an assortment of seedlings and saplings of canopy trees; shrubs, grasses, and vines; herbs and moss. Young canopy trees often persist in the understory for decades as suppressed juveniles, hidden in the shadows. Although only a fraction of sunlight gets through the dense forest canopy, the understory has a diversity of plants. The infinitesimal amount of sunlight encourages plants in the understory to adopt a smarter way of living, with less sunlight. As older trees in the canopy die or lose their leaves, the understory plants burst with energy and blossom before the canopy trees block the sunlight once again.

Prologue

G azing intently at the bright red coils, knees hugged in tight against my chest, I feel the heat on my skin as I fantasize sitting in front of a fire, deep in the woods. The only sounds I hear are the distant howls of wolves. Eventually, my fingers tire from plugging my ears, and the angry shouting between my parents invades my meditation.

Damn it, Susie, you are going to set this house on fire sitting that close to the heater, my dad yells.

That was, unfortunately, a common scenario in our tiny, three-bedroom house.

I reflect on those nights as a child so long ago as I watch the red embers burning hot in my wood stove on another cold winter night in Alaska. I have attempted to put my life into words, but there is always something more important to do: the half-acre of garden to weed, water to haul, wood to split and stack, the deck to stain, or snow to shovelwhich, I admit, keeps me physically strong. Ah, the endless tasks that need to be done. There was always an excuse.

I think it might be human nature, the need to tell our story.

Whether at a party with people of many diverse backgrounds or an intimate group of few, either in Alaska or in some remote corner of the globe, it was rare not to be around inquisitive people and the sharing of others life stories. In fact, it has always been exhilarating for me to find out where people are from, how they arrived, and what they do.

And during these incredible exchanges, someone would often pose it to me: You tell the most mind-blowing stories! Have you ever considered writing a book?

Until recently, I did not understand how starved I was for these warm and friendly mutual conversations. For months, I had been looking for a home, for a community, and I assumed Washington would be itthe familiar, near family and childhood friends.

But I was wrong. Instead, I found a deep void brought on by the absence of inquisitiveness. I felt a gut feeling as I asked myself: Do others tolerate me out of pity rather than an eager desire to exchange caring words? They appear to have no interest in anything I have to say, or what I have done, or where I have been the last 30-odd years. No, I am merely a tolerated invader of their secure bubble. I see it on their faces.

If there was a family illness, wedding, high school reunion, or funeral, I universally dropped what I was doing and made the trip to Washington. It was rare that a family member or friend would travel to spend time with me in Alaska. Consequentially, I filled this gap with my Alaska friends and family.

A recent event, my nieces wedding, helped deliver that message like an arrow straight into my heart. The piercing truth came when I learned I hadnt made the A-list for the number of people who could attend the wedding under Covid restrictions of 30 guests. My cousin was pissednot that she, too, was not invited, but pissed that I wasnt. She felt so sorry for me. I pretended it didnt hurt, but it did.

This contrast became clear soon after my arrival from Alaska to my long-familiar stomping grounds in central Washington. I was walking with a girlfriend along a forested trail of asphalt, when we came upon a sign warning people to be aware of a moose. I was immediately excited and pushed ahead. My girlfriend stopped and said to me, Moose are dangerous. You need to be very careful around moose. You dont know what to do around them! I was stunned; speechless. In this undemanding, simple life, I quickly realized I did not fit in. It is one thing to be alone in the wilderness, another to be alone in an urban setting.

Since then, in contemplating my existence among eight billion other human beings, I considered maybe it would be fun to write about my life. I found the whole idea of leaving a legacy appealing but also somewhat daunting.

I had an inauspicious beginning. I was small, premature. And I wanted out. My mother said it was my nature. She said I never wanted to sit still. To hold back. To be quiet. I was like a bull in a china store, she would say. Invincible. When my brother, one year older than me, could start school, I cried desperately to go. He also was the reason why I never knew my real name was Michelle.

I have traveled all over the world, exploring the mysteries of life under the sea from Yap to Honduras. I have walked on endless, unspoiled ground of natures creation, from seas to mountain spires. I have rafted endangered rivers, such as the Bio Bio in Chile and the Zambezi, in Central Africa. I have been touched by a Mountain Gorilla, and watched the tears fall from the eyes of a baby elephant as it mourned its mother, a bloody emptiness where her trunk and face were missing because of ignorance and self-indulgence.

I have observed a grizzly sow playing with her three cubs on sun-drenched slopes on the western edge of the North American continent. I have borne witness to the sobering spectacle of hundreds of female seals dragging their blackened, distended bellies through the oozing black death spread by human greed, simply to give birth. The amazing journey of life: pain, love, sadness, cruelty, joy.

My neighbor stopped as he was leaving my house. Michelle, you need to tell your story, to help other women. Women like you.

A story to help other... women... like... Me? Wow. That stopped me in my tracks. I am independent. I had a career. I am a survivor. And yet, there I was, after all my sacrifices, all my accomplishments, being called to join my sisters in that circle of women I tried so hard not to be part of.

I can think of a thousand reasons not to write. For the first time, I can think of one reason why I should. Because I can. And so, this is my story. I will call it a thinly fictionalized memoir of my life.

Some of my characters names are fiction, mostly to protect the guilty; but my story, desires, adventures, dreams, and despair are all true.