An earthworm wriggling itself into moist knots in soil black as pitch. How spring sun can feel like pulsing heat on a face after months cut off. Spiny branches of maple blooming blood red. We followed him like puppies into the woods - he pointed out ever-interesting things, I soaked up every word - then we sat and wrote in our notebooks. I remember one class: it was warm, afternoon, and he took us across the street to a swath we called the Sheep Pasture. And he spoke, perhaps especially, to those of us who felt the same. The author of more than a dozen books, many on nature, Chet saw the spiritual in nature. His class was called “The Naturalist,” and he taught us nature writing, but how to observe. He was a huge influence on me, many of us at Stonehill over the years, and beyond. Raymo had underlined it, told me he liked it, and I think that moment is watermarked in me somewhere. I somehow still remember the first sentence I ever wrote for him, in a first assigned essay: “I grew up among wild mint, red-winged black birds pecking dust. A nature writer, a naturalist, who taught us about science, spirituality, and about cutting to the bone of a sentence. I think of Chet Raymo, my Stonehill professor.
This time of year I think on nature writers. Then - a V of geese bleating - and she kicks up her white tail, runs a few yards, bends, continues with dinner.
She doesn’t notice the blue heron in reeds, the egrets roosting. She's too amused by me for now. Her curious eyes, delicate legs stomping, itchy with curiosity. This is our dance.) A staring contest, of sorts.
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