Free Outside the Ordinary World by Dori Ostermiller Page A

“I didn’t realize.”
    “Maybe we should go back,” I offered.
    “We most definitely should,” he conceded and laughed, straightening up. “But it’s your birthday, and you wanted a hike, right? Besides, there’s an incredible view.” He took me by the elbow, pressed me into the dark open mouth of the trail. “And you still have to tell me why you have so much guilt in your life.”
    “Isn’t it obvious?” I followed him over a fallen log, onto a path strewn with decomposing kindling and last year’s leaves. He leaned down to grab some of the thicker branches, tossing them into the dense woods on either side. I glimpsed the ample outline of shoulders through his white linen shirt. My leather sandals sunk into the rain-soaked earth, making a sucking sound each time I stepped after him, the warm mud oozing between my toes. Each time he heard it, he chuckled. Once, when my foot sank inches into the muck, he had to turn and tug me out, his hand lingering on my forearm before he resumed his resolute pace.
    We walked the narrow trail in silence, listening to the river rushing through a small canyon below, the distant cawing of crows and sputtering of grackles, the summer breeze in the treetops, rustling of squirrels and other animals we couldn’t see. It had transformed into a gorgeous, rain-washed Tuesday and I could almost convince myself that this was ordinary, that I was just enjoying my birthday with a friend, with no other reason for my racing pulse than exertion. Gradually, the trail widened and we began talking. Tai talked about his business creating wild gardens from indigenous plants and grasses. He pointed out and named some lesser known flowers and shrubs—Bloodroot, Jimson Weed, Trillium, Wild Calla—and told me how he’d had to relearn many of them since moving back east from California.
    I talked about my work teaching art to teens, and admitted that I hadn’t painted any landscapes for over a year, though I wasn’t sure why.
    “I just haven’t felt much desire,” I told him. “Or maybe I’ve run out of pictures. Every time I start something, I come up blank.”
    “Does your husband support it—your art?”
    It was the first time either of us had mentioned Nathan. I stubbed my toe hard on a tree root. “Shit,” I whispered, hopping in place.
    “You okay?”
    “Fine. I’m fine.” The truth was, I was struggling to keep up.
    “You didn’t answer my question,” he called back.
    “Well, it’s not like he’s offered me a cushy life where all I have to worry about is making paintings.”
    “That’s not what I meant, Sylvia. I’m wondering if he loves your work.”
    “Does anyone love what competes with their needs?” I snapped, shocked at my own defensiveness. I was about to go into my tirade about how things change when there are two children and two jobs and never enough time or freedom or money—how nobody gets their needs met—when Tai halted in front of me so suddenly, I walked smack into him and had to grab his bicep to keep from falling over.
    “Shh—hold still.” He reached to steady me, placing his left palm against my hip. His back radiated warmth beneath the thin shirt, muscles tense, alert. “There’s a great horned owl. You see it?” he whispered. “Right in the top of that yellow birch.” I couldn’t see anything; the sun’s light perforating the leaves momentarily blinded me. I caught traces of sage (his aftershave?), the yeasty odor of sweat and cigarettes. I took a step back. Then, the sharp rustling of leaves overhead, the flashing of two enormous amber wings, and the bird was gone.
    “How did you know it was there?” I murmured. Tai turned and placed both hands on the bones of my shoulders, as if to unmake me. I could count the silver threads in his beard, the crow’s feet radiating from each green-gold eye. My heart throbbed beneath my cotton tank.
    “I spend a lot of time hiking,” he finally said, the jasmine from our tea still on his