Folding

Christine Skolnik

The earth folds upon itself. Water folds around the earth folding. Oceans, folding back on themselves, shape sands into spectacular patterns. Water collects in folds of sand. My arm hinges at various points to shield my eyes from the sun as I scan the horizon, where the land seems to flatten but actually curves. (An endless, gentle fold.) Only when I see the sun touching the horizon do I feel the earth rotating. It seems to be rotating toward me, but I am also moving…and the sun.

*

Driving west, crossing from Nebraska to Colorado, I imagine the plains crumpling like discarded pieces of paper. A long drugstore receipt or a well-worn map. I think of cuneiform tablets but, reviewing images in my mind’s eye, have to admit an incised clay tablet is not like a landscape.

West of Denver mountains rise and then fold into valleys, creating bold patterns. In a pass I notice sedimentary rock set at seemingly measured angles. When I fly I sense the mountains before I see them, the predictable tilt and pitch of the plane, once alarming to me, now assimilated as wind folded by mountains and wings. Still, I am happier with my feet on the ground.

*

Bird wings fold. Beaks open and close and fold over time, following function and topography. Webbed feet fold inward and legs fold back when a duck glides in the water. In a park at the edge of a big city, I see a heron folded like an accordion, standing at the edge of an old fountain in a memorial garden. Motionless. I think it might be stone until it unfolds itself, rises up, and flies. By an artificial lake I note the S-curve of a swan. I think the posture so confident, it could very well be the origin of aesthetic thought but the conviction is fleeting.

*

Feathers fold over one another but rarely fold upon themselves. Constructed of hollow, durable shafts and vanes that keep birds aloft, they are equally resilient in the air, on the street, and set in fine hats. I imagine a woman from another century removing her hat and gloves, reaching for a blank piece of paper, and dipping a quill in ink to write. I imagine her writing a letter, a poem, or perhaps a novel.

*

Blossoms open and fold. Tulips, poppies, and hibiscus. Hollyhocks—their excellent design—twisting as they close. Daisies hide their faces at night as if they feel misunderstood. Flowers that open after dark, evening primrose and night-blooming jasmine, share secrets. Hands fold paper flowers and cranes at leisure, but whose hands make the tiny, colorful cocktail parasols, folding and unfolding endlessly across the globe? Will I remember them next time I open and close a bright-pink parasol, marveling at its construction?

*

Gazing out of my office window, I see green leaves on the large maple beginning to turn yellow. On every leaf a worrisome spot of mold. The tree is thinning but I refuse to believe it will die. My mind on folding, I remember seed helicopters twirling down from maple trees on sunlit paths to and from my elementary school. We picked them up and launched them over and over again but could never recreate the mysterious, wandering line of the first fall.

*

Smell of pine needles on the forest floor from my camping days and morning sounds of splitting logs. My hands become dirty as I gather small sticks and kindling. (I don’t mind except for the intractable traces beneath my fingernails.) We tear up a grocery bag, crumpling the brown paper into little balls and distributing them, unfolding, strategically within the folded structure. Is there enough room for air…to give it oxygen? someone always asks.

*

The wind is folded and then it folds. As I exit the commuter train station onto the city street in Chicago, my hair is blown back. I imagine wind from the lake and the river funneled through canyons of tall, smooth buildings, intersecting and creating vortices. Left to its own devices, my carefully curled hair rises up, unfurls, and is swept sideways across my face. Eventually I learn to tie it back until I get into a taxi or my husband’s car. Sometimes I bring an umbrella but often struggle to keep it under control. A raincoat with a hood is more practical.

*

I think of tiny parasols and birds’ wings as I fold my lightweight travel umbrella, fasten the Velcro strap, and slip it into its sleeve. My husband and I take a taxicab to the British Museum but walk the last few blocks because of construction traffic. Buy an umbrella! the London cabbie shouts in a friendly accent as we begin to walk away. I smile and tap my backpack. I have a rain jacket with a hood as well as an umbrella but don’t stop when the gentle rain begins.

Entering the Ancient Assyria exhibit, I notice a very large, rugged, “etched” stone. What is this? As I approach text seems to appear, but the surface is so well worn, I can’t be sure until I read the notes. And then I’m dumfounded. A large cuneiform tablet but it also looks like a model of a landscape, the edges of the faint text eroding and then falling off in irregular lines like continental shelves. Broad, shallow riverbeds seem to be carved across the lines of text. A trace of water or some other shearing force? Is this a bizarre coincidence? I ask my husband. Or have I seen it before?

Christine Skolnik has been published in the North Dakota Quarterly, Los Angeles Review of Books, Chicago Review of Books, and Watkins MIND BODY SPIRIT Magazine, in addition to numerous academic publications. She earned a master’s degree in English from California State University; an MFA in creative nonfiction writing from Vermont College of Fine Arts; and a PhD in English from Penn State. Christine taught rhetorical theory, technical writing, and environmental writing at DePaul University in Chicago. A devoted environmental activist, she enjoys organizing and reporting on local actions and spending time outdoors hiking and skiing. In addition to writing literary essays, Christine researches and writes about ecology, renewable energy, the history of religions, and the paranormal.