I have learned to see pawpaw patches. I lived in and hiked this part of the Midwest from 1980 to 1993. In the spring I occasionally saw the pawpaw’s large leaves and maroon flowers, but never the fruit. It turned out that the fruit matured in September, when clouds of ragweed pollen inflamed my allergies.
This September, thanks to better allergy medicines, I sought and found some pawpaw patches loaded with fruit. Now that I have become familiar with the shape of their leaves and their splotchy bark, I see them easily when hiking besides creeks. In fact, I now notice them so quickly that I wonder how I missed them along the trails I had hiked multiple times. Their leaves are larger than most of the other trees and in the fall hang on the trees longer. Now I see the buttery yellow leaves drooping in the understory of naked oaks and hickories.
What once seemed scarce now seems abundant, but all that has changed is my vision. There may be a name for this phenomenon.This miracle of seeing the world takes many forms. Experienced birdwatchers identify a bird from how it flaps its wings, creeps up the trunk of tree, dances in the understory, or scratches in the fallen leaves. Skilled birdwatchers, like my brother Stanley, could identify soaring birds from their silhouette and hidden birds from their songs.
Skilled hunters will see the whole story of the deer before they see anything move. They will see the bark rubbed off the tree by a buck’s horns, the round scat, the flattened grass where they slept, and the trails to where they drink. The unexperienced will be blind to the story, stomp noisily through the woods, and report no sign of life.
Mushroom hunters know this concept too. Along the coast of Oregon, I learned to see a slight bump in the fir needles made by a chanterelle. I have never seen a wild morel; they blend in perfectly with the leaf litter, but once you see the first morel—I have been told—your eyes will see more. I have heard of people hunting morels and sitting down on a log in frustration and disappointment, only to discover that morels have taken the forest floor by storm.
Of course, in all this there is more than just knowing the look of the thing; it is knowing when and where they can be found. The pawpaws are understory trees overshadowed by the oaks, hickories, and towering sycamores. They flourish in moist soil along creeks and form thickets. On windy September days you may hear the thud of the fruit falling from the trees. Sometimes, I looked for the pawpaws at the wrong time and in the wrong places.
I have done the same with God who, although omnipresent, sometimes seems nowhere to be found. But at the heart of intimacy with God is learning where His presence grows. Sometimes I have found God in my grief—the grief I had been refusing. Sometimes I have found him in the smallest acts of kindness, the simplest blessings, a child’s smile. I have learned His habitat in the world around me and in my own heart. I have learned His presence grows in the soil of my tears and humility.
In quiet moments of exhaustion and loss, I sit alone on a log like the morel hunter and in the light and shadow of the forest floor see God all around.
