THE THREAD | The Acorn and the Altar
THE ACORN AND THE ALTAR
The acorn is merely decorative detail, carved into the almost-hidden edge of the oak communion altar, as if only as an afterthought. I say merely, I say only, already revealing my swift prejudice. Why so dismissive? Aren’t I the one bringing up the acorn as subject, as focal point? I’m the one drawn to the acorn in the first place, my eyes finding it, landing on it, the acorn gripping my line of sight, the line of attention pulled taut. I have walked past this altar after receiving communion over the course of how many Sundays? Head bowed, hands folded, and I never noticed the acorn before. But once I saw it I couldn’t unsee, couldn’t cut the line drawn out of my mind, tethered to this confusion. Why acorn? Why, on this altar made to bring attention to the elements of communion—the bread and the wine—why not inlays of wheat stalks, flourishes of grapevines? Why acorn? This lonesome seed on the side, acorn on the edge, acorn adorning the corner, as if hiding. Out of sight. Hiding, like when I would hide in the back corner of the forest behind my childhood home. I would disappear. With a slingshot sticking out the back pocket of my overalls, I would run through the field to the woods, race to the realm I had imagined under the canopy of the huge oak tree, the place where I was no longer merely myself but became Tom Sawyer, or — no, perhaps I was not merely myself, not only myself, but in fact more fully myself by becoming infused by the spirit of Tom, not merely in spirit alone but in bodily form, transubstantiated by way of denim overalls, no shirt, bare feet, wide-brimmed hat, a long stem of straw sticking out from my mouth. Under the oak tree I would collect as many acorns as could fit inside my breast pocket. Then I would climb the makeshift ladder some older boy before me had nailed into the trunk of the tree, up into the branches twenty feet up into the sky, wriggle my legs and torso around, find a comfy way to sit. I’m settled. I’m all set. I hold the slingshot. I pluck the first acorn from my pocket, place it in the leather pouch of the slingshot — (This is the good slingshot my uncle gave me last Christmas, the one that arrived in the same gift box as the BB gun my parents said I wasn’t ready for but allowed my uncle to give me anyway.) — and I wait patiently, gathering a stillness into myself that I rarely feel throughout the rest of my days, bringing my breath and heartbeat to such quiet that I feel I am part of the tree, the stillness of it all, no sensation other than these two eyes scanning the ground below and the sky above for anything that moves, anything living, anything offered as something to aim for. There. I see it move. I lift the slingshot with my left hand, pinch the acorn into the sling pouch with my thumb and the knuckle of my index finger, raise the sling and pull it taut in line with the aim of my attention. I gaze steady, wink my right eye shut, and focus my sight as tightly as I can, tracing it down the imaginary line out ahead of the acorn. I bring the distance into focus and lock my sight on a grown man walking, head bowed, hands folded, suddenly startled and now looking straight up at the acorn that is about to crack his head right between his puzzled eyes.
Save the date! I’ll share more details next week, but I am giving a poetry reading as part of Poetic Underground KC’s Showcase at Blip Roasters next Wednesday night, December 18th.
Also: We’re celebrating the launch of Forum at the Fire House tonight. If you’re in KC and free, I hope you will stop by, share a drink, and grab a copy of the magazine.
What I’m currently reading: Lia Purpura, Sven Birkerts, George Saunders, Gerard Manley Hopkins, Bruce Bond
What I’m currently listening to: Andrew Bird, Waxahatchee, MJ Lenderman, Sylvan Esso, Brad Millison