Slugs
After Ross Gay, The Book of Delights, “Fireflies”
Just beyond the forest floor where I sat listening to wet crackle, drops of earlier precipitation sliding down yew trunks and pooling at the tips of maple leaves the size of my face, my eye caught movement among the amber and rust of the fallen. I went out into the clearing beneath a sheet of white. Stooping, I spied a slug the color of a ripe banana, sliding glacially. Its two long top antennae, each with a tiny knob at the end, reached out to test the world. I leaned in close. Back it reared. And then—and there’s no other way to say this—its entire face disappeared inside itself, an implosion, optic antennae, gone, sensory antennae, gone, a recoil.
“I didn’t know you could do that,” I whispered, stunned.
Its face returned. First one antenna and then the next stretched toward light. The bottom two tasted ground. And on it continued, toward me, either unaware of the peril I might pose or despite it.
Is there a word for when you suddenly understand something about the way you move through the world by observing a creature whose entire range is the size of a garden?
I have a strong memory—in truth, it’s my sister’s memory—of my brother sitting in afternoon rays next to the geranium planter on the top step of our red-brick family home, where we moved just a year before I, the oldest, flew the coop early and destructive, stretching to test the world. I can see the shaker of salt sitting next to him. I can see the way his head hangs and follow his gaze to the step below, where a shriveled, dry lump lies at his feet, can see his glistening cheek and the tear that clings to his chin and then splashes on concrete next to the once moving body.
There is some profound love lesson in witnessing a person who is so much a part of you you sometimes don’t know where he ends and you begin learn who he is—or, rather, who he isn’t—under a bright sun that lives in the meditation and regard of another person who’s part of your becoming. I don’t know who I’d be without them, but I am certain I don’t want to know.
Watch this slug move (on time-lapse).
A note: This is another piece (along with “Wrap Your Hands Around This”) that came into being because I’m writing a (mostly) daily delight, inspired by a writing intensive conceived of by Jeannine Ouellette, whose writing and intensives I highly recommend. This one she calls “For the Joy & the Sorrow,” and each weekly study focuses on an essayette from Ross Gay’s Book of Delights.
If you’re a writer and you haven’t tried an “after” piece, I recommend it. To focus intently on the way a writer you admire pulls off a work you wish to emulate and try to reproduce the technique is, for me, a fantastic learning experience. I stayed fairly close to Gay’s structure on this piece.
Oh, and I met this slug while writing in collaboration with
and a piece called “5 o’Clock Somewhere.”For the comments, do you remember a time when you learned who you were or weren’t through experience, perhaps regret? I have many—a mean note passed under a bathroom stall door, a lashing out in the wrong direction, a taking of what didn’t belong to me justified by a feeling of lack. Do you remember a time when you were touched deeply by the tenderness or growth of someone close to you? For me, I’m grateful to share life with siblings and friends who care deeply for the world and its creatures and for evolving and learning about themselves and who they want to become. And also, how are you coping these days?
Thank you for reading, liking, and commenting. I’m grateful to be sharing these days with you—to be reflecting and stretching toward the world and feeling the rage and the hope and contemplating solutions that might move us toward who we are and away from who we aren’t together. I’ve shared a few conversations recently with fellow writers who publish on Substack in which we’ve realized how fortunate we are to have each other in this moment in time.
I’d love to pass this delight around. Pretty please, if you dug the slugs, restack the post (press the little recycle button) or share it with a link! Or if you’re a Substack writer, please consider recommending the Rolling Desk.
“There is some profound love lesson in witnessing a person who is so much a part of you you sometimes don’t know where he ends and you begin learn who he is—or, rather, who he isn’t—under a bright sun that lives in the meditation and regard of another person who’s part of your becoming.” Gasp. Your words, your love lesson silences me. ❤️
Your memory of your brother reminded me of when my father told me about going with a best friend about age 10 to use his father's rifle to shoot birds. He thought it would be fun until he watched his friend kill a bird. Dad was an avid birder well into his later years. He never thought of himself in those words. Didn't matter the species. He liked to see their habits and where they nested and their other habits.
Now, on slugs. I have always been partial to the sophisticated, Poirot like little brown guys. Absolutely understand that most people are clueless to the intelligence of slugs. I got my first inkling when I was trying to protect some young plant from them over one winter. I thought I had a failproof idea of putting the plants in a big wheel barrow in an open shed with a concrete floor. A slug was able to check this all out and take himself up the maze of metal braces and wood rails and outside of the wheel barrow to find his way in! And he came back again and again to outwit every thing I tried! Including hanging the plants from the rafters! The slime trails up the walls and across the rafters and down the cords were the evidence of every effort he/she made. I actually started thinking why am I trying to save these plants? Why am I not trying to save the slug?!??! An Einstein in slug disguise! In closing I encourage everyone to look for pics of 'ocean sea slugs'. If you have never seen them ... set yourself down. You will be amazed!