5. LIFE IN A MICROCOSM

Everything in the world of Things and animals
is still filled with happening, which you can take part in.

— RAINER MARIA RILKE, 1903,
from Letters to a Young Poet, 1927

THE SNAIL CONSUMED an entire slice of portobello every week. As I watched it eat, I noticed that it nodded its head gently up and down. Did this mean that it approved of its dinner? When I examined what remained of the mushroom after it had dined, I could see a pattern of fresh teeth marks—very fine little vertical striations, as if made by a tiny comb.

Half the fun of having the snail as a companion was that it kept finding new sleeping places. So there was an ongoing game of hide-and-seek in the terrarium. It would blend so well into the woodland plants that I’d have to sleuth out its latest hiding spot. If the day was cloudy or rainy, the snail awoke and was active, and I was amazed at how fast it moved. I’d see it in one place at one moment, and then my mind would wander off and I’d have to search the terrarium to find it again.

The creature seemed to defy physics. It moved over the very tips of mosses without bending them, and it could travel straight up the stem of a fern and then continue upside down along the frond’s underside. Its tiny weight caused the fern frond to bend into an arc, yet the snail was unfazed; it was perfectly comfortable in any position and at any angle or height. Its balance, too, was impeccable. It could perch on the very edge of the mussel shell and from this precarious position reach casually across open space to eat some of the mushroom without falling or spilling water from the shell. No challenge was too great; if the snail came to an obstacle such as a branch, it made a brief inspection and then simply climbed up and over, rather than taking a longer route around. Each morning the terrarium glistened with the silvery trails of its nighttime travels.

I was fond of the elegant way the snail waved its tentacles as it moved serenely along, and I loved to watch it drink water from the mussel shell. Several times I was lucky enough to see it grooming; it arched its neck over the curved edge of its own shell and cleaned the rim carefully with its mouth, like a cat licking fur on the back of its neck. Usually the snail slept on its side, and at these times the striae, perpendicular to the spiraling whorls of its shell, reminded me of the pattern of stripes on my old tiger cat, Zephyr, when he would curl into a nap.

Though holding and reading a book for any length of time involved levels of strength and concentration that were beyond me, watching the snail was completely relaxing. I observed without thinking, looking into the terrarium simply to feel connected to another creature; another life was being lived just a few inches away.

While the snail and I each had our routines, we also both appreciated adventures. When a visiting friend or relative brought something to add to the terrarium, the snail was always intrigued. Whether it was a half-rotten lichen-covered branch, a piece of birch bark, a clump of moss of a different species, or perhaps a leaf of lettuce or a slice of cucumber, the snail received the gift with tentacles aquiver. After conducting a careful and thorough examination, it then tasted anything that might be edible.

My own adventures were more challenging. After weeks of never leaving the bed in the room where I stayed, a trip to a doctor’s appointment was a monumental undertaking. I traveled horizontally in the car, and given the physical stillness of my usual daily existence, it was astonishing to see the treetops rushing past overhead at what seemed like a furious speed.

Wheeled into the doctor’s reception room, I’d find myself surrounded by quietly waiting patients. We had each journeyed to this office from our own distant planet of illness. Though strangers, we became instant, silent companions. We were here for the same purpose: to describe our alien experience to the doctor in hope of survival advice. The chance to be with other patients brought a catch to my throat; despite our individual ailments, we shared the burden of illness. Yet even here my participation was limited, as I was too weak to sit upright for more than a few minutes. As quickly as possible I’d be taken straight back to an examination room so that I could wait lying down.

Though I could recline in the back of a car for these occasional outings, there were few other accessible destinations. Offices, stores, galleries, libraries, and movie theaters are not designed for horizontal people. The most satisfying adventure was when my driver had errands to run and I could lie in the back of the car in a parking lot and watch my own species bustle about its business. This brought a sense of connection and contentment, yet was a striking reminder of how entirely cut off I was from the most basic activities of life.