The sound of a wild snail eating.

by Elisabeth Tova Bailey.

PROLOGUE.

Viruses are embedded into the very fabric of all life.

- LUIS P. V P. VILLARREAL, "The Living and Dead Chemical Called a Virus," 2005.

FROM MY HOTEL WINDOW I look over the deep glacial lake to the foothills and the Alps beyond. Twilight vanishes the hills into the mountains; then all is lost to the dark. I look over the deep glacial lake to the foothills and the Alps beyond. Twilight vanishes the hills into the mountains; then all is lost to the dark.

After breakfast, I wander the cobbled village streets. The frost is out of the ground, and huge bushes of rosemary bask fragrantly in the sun. I take a trail that meanders up the steep, wild hills past flocks of sheep. High on an outcrop, I lunch on bread and cheese. Late in the afternoon along the sh.o.r.e, I find ancient pieces of pottery, their edges smoothed by waves and time. I hear that a virulent flu is sweeping this small town.A few days pa.s.s and then comes a delirious night. My dreams are disturbed by the comings and goings of ferries. Pa.s.sengers call into the dark, startling me awake. Each time I fall back into sleep, the lake's watery sound pulls at me. Something is wrong with my body. Nothing feels right.In the morning I am weak and can't think. Some of my muscles don't work. Time becomes strange. I get lost; the streets go in too many directions. The days drift past in confusion. I pack my suitcase, but for some reason it's impossible to lift. It seems to be stuck to the floor. Somehow I get to the airport. Seated next to me on the transatlantic flight is a sick surgeon; he sneezes and coughs continually. My rare, much-needed vacation has not gone as planned. I'll be okay; I just want to get home.After a flight connection in Boston, I land at my small New England airport near midnight. In the parking lot, as I bend over to dig my car out of the snow, the shovel turns into a crutch that I use to push myself upright. I don't know how I get home. Arising the next morning, I immediately faint to the floor. Ten days of fever with a pounding headache. Emergency room visits. Lab tests. I am sicker than I have ever been. Childhood pneumonia, college mononucleosis-those were nothing compared to this.A few weeks later, resting on the couch, I spiral into a deep darkness, falling farther and farther away until I am impossibly distant. I cannot come back up; I cannot reach my body. Distant sound of an ambulance siren. Distant sound of doctors talking. My eyelids heavy as boulders. I try to open them to a slit, just for a few seconds, but they close against my will. All I can do is breathe.The doctors will know how to fix me. They will stop this. I keep breathing. What if my breath stops? I need to sleep, but I am afraid to sleep. I try to watch over myself; if I go to sleep, I might never wake up again.

Part 1

THE VIOLET - POT ADVENTURES.

Try to love the questions themselves the questions themselves as if they were locked rooms or books written in a very foreign language. Don't search for the answers, which could not be given to you now, because you would not be able to live them. And the point is, to live everything. as if they were locked rooms or books written in a very foreign language. Don't search for the answers, which could not be given to you now, because you would not be able to live them. And the point is, to live everything. Live Live the questions now. the questions now.

- RAINER M MARIA R RILKE, 1903, from Letters to a Young Poet Letters to a Young Poet, 1927

1. FIELD VIOLETS.

at my feet when did you get here?

snail.

- KOBAYASHI ISSA (1763 1828).

IN EARLY SPRING, a friend went for a walk in the woods and, glancing down at the path, saw a snail. Picking it up, she held it gingerly in the palm of her hand and carried it back toward the studio where I was convalescing. She noticed some field violets on the edge of the lawn. Finding a trowel, she dug a few up, then planted them in a terra-cotta pot and placed the snail beneath their leaves. She brought the pot into the studio and put it by my bedside.

"I found a snail in the woods. I brought it back and it's right here beneath the violets.""You did? Why did you bring it in?""I don't know. I thought you might enjoy it.""Is it alive?"She picked up the brown acorn-sized sh.e.l.l and looked at it."I think it is."Why, I wondered, would I enjoy enjoy a snail? What on earth would I do with it? I couldn't get out of bed to return it to the woods. It was not of much interest, and if it a snail? What on earth would I do with it? I couldn't get out of bed to return it to the woods. It was not of much interest, and if it was was alive, the responsibility-especially for a snail, something so uncalled for-was overwhelming. alive, the responsibility-especially for a snail, something so uncalled for-was overwhelming.My friend hugged me, said good-bye, and drove off.

AT AGE THIRTY-FOUR, on a brief trip to Europe, I was felled by a mysterious viral or bacterial pathogen, resulting in severe neurological symptoms. I had thought I was indestructible. But I wasn't. If anything did go wrong, I figured modern medicine would fix me. But it didn't. Medical specialists at several major clinics couldn't diagnose the infectious culprit. I was in and out of the hospital for months, and the complications were life threatening. An experimental drug that became available stabilized my condition, though it would be several grueling years to a partial recovery and a return to work. My doctors said the illness was behind me, and I wanted to believe them. I was ecstatic to have most of my life back.

But out of the blue came a series of insidious relapses, and once again, I was bedridden. Further, more sophisticated testing showed that the mitochondria in my cells no longer functioned correctly and there was damage to my autonomic nervous system; all functions not consciously directed, including heart rate, blood pressure, and digestion, had gone haywire. The drug that had previously helped now caused dangerous side effects; it would soon be removed from the market.

WHEN THE BODY is rendered useless, the mind still runs like a bloodhound along well-worn trails of neurons, tracking the echoing questions: the confused family of is rendered useless, the mind still runs like a bloodhound along well-worn trails of neurons, tracking the echoing questions: the confused family of why whys, what whats, and when whens and their impossibly distant kin how. how. The search is exhaustive; the answers, elusive. Sometimes my mind went blank and listless; at other times it was flooded with storms of thought, unspeakable sadness, and intolerable loss. The search is exhaustive; the answers, elusive. Sometimes my mind went blank and listless; at other times it was flooded with storms of thought, unspeakable sadness, and intolerable loss.

Given the ease with which health infuses life with meaning and purpose, it is shocking how swiftly illness steals away those certainties. It was all I could do to get through each moment, and each moment felt like an endless hour, yet days slipped silently past. Time unused and only endured still vanishes, as if time itself is starving, and each day is swallowed whole, leaving no crumbs, no memory, no trace at all.

I HAD BEEN MOVED HAD BEEN MOVED to a studio apartment where I could receive the care I needed. My own farmhouse, some fifty miles away, was closed up. I did not know if or when I'd ever make it home again. For now, my only way back was to close my eyes and remember. I could see the early spring there, the purple field violets-like those at my bedside-running rampant through the yard. And the fragrant small pink violets that I had planted in the little woodland garden to the north of my house-they, too, would be in bloom. Though not usually hardy this far north, somehow they survived. In my mind I could smell their sweetness. to a studio apartment where I could receive the care I needed. My own farmhouse, some fifty miles away, was closed up. I did not know if or when I'd ever make it home again. For now, my only way back was to close my eyes and remember. I could see the early spring there, the purple field violets-like those at my bedside-running rampant through the yard. And the fragrant small pink violets that I had planted in the little woodland garden to the north of my house-they, too, would be in bloom. Though not usually hardy this far north, somehow they survived. In my mind I could smell their sweetness.

Before my illness, my dog, Brandy, and I had often wandered the acres of forest that stretched beyond the house to a hidden, mountain-fed brook. The brook's song of weather and season followed us as we crisscrossed its channel over partially submerged boulders. On the trail home, in the boggiest of spots, perched on tiny islands of root and moss, I found diminutive wild white violets, their throats faintly striped with purple.

THESE FIELD VIOLETS in the pot at my bedside were fresh and full of life, unlike the usual cut flowers brought by other friends. Those lasted just a few days, leaving murky, odoriferous vase water. In my twenties I had earned my living as a gardener, so I was glad to have this bit of garden right by my bed. I could even water the violets with my drinking gla.s.s. in the pot at my bedside were fresh and full of life, unlike the usual cut flowers brought by other friends. Those lasted just a few days, leaving murky, odoriferous vase water. In my twenties I had earned my living as a gardener, so I was glad to have this bit of garden right by my bed. I could even water the violets with my drinking gla.s.s.

But what about this snail? What would I do with it? As tiny as it was, it had been going about its day when it was picked up. What right did my friend and I have to disrupt its life? Though I couldn't imagine what kind of life a snail might lead.I didn't remember ever having noticed any snails on my countless hikes in the woods. Perhaps, I thought, looking at the nondescript brown creature, it was precisely because they were so inconspicuous. For the rest of the day the snail stayed inside its sh.e.l.l, and I was too worn out from my friend's visit to give it another thought.

2. DISCOVERY.

the snail gets up and goes to bed with very little fuss - KOBAYASHI I ISSA (1763 1828)

AROUND DINNERTIME I was surprised to see that the snail was partway out of its sh.e.l.l. It was alive. The visible part of its body was nearly two inches long from head to tail, and moist. The rest of it was hidden in the attached inch-high brown sh.e.l.l, which it balanced gracefully on its back. I watched as it moved slowly down the side of the flowerpot. As it glided along, it gently waved the tentacles on its head. I was surprised to see that the snail was partway out of its sh.e.l.l. It was alive. The visible part of its body was nearly two inches long from head to tail, and moist. The rest of it was hidden in the attached inch-high brown sh.e.l.l, which it balanced gracefully on its back. I watched as it moved slowly down the side of the flowerpot. As it glided along, it gently waved the tentacles on its head.

Throughout the evening the snail explored the sides of the pot and the dish beneath. Its leisurely pace was mesmerizing. I wondered if it would wander off during the night. Perhaps I'd never see it again, and the snail problem would simply vanish.But when I woke the next morning, the snail was back up in the pot, tucked into its sh.e.l.l, asleep beneath a violet leaf. The night before, I had propped an envelope containing a letter against the base of the lamp. Now I noticed a mysterious square hole just below the return address. This was baffling. How could a hole-a square square hole-appear in an envelope overnight? Then I thought of the snail and its evening activity. The snail was clearly nocturnal. It must have some kind of teeth, and it wasn't shy about using them. hole-appear in an envelope overnight? Then I thought of the snail and its evening activity. The snail was clearly nocturnal. It must have some kind of teeth, and it wasn't shy about using them.

MY HEALTHY LIFE HAD been full of activity, filled with friends, family, and work; the pleasures of gardening, hiking, and sailing; and the familiar humdrum of daily routines: making breakfast, exploring the woods, going to work, reading a book, getting up to get something. Now, getting up to get something, anything-that alone would be an accomplishment. From where I lay, all of life was out of reach. been full of activity, filled with friends, family, and work; the pleasures of gardening, hiking, and sailing; and the familiar humdrum of daily routines: making breakfast, exploring the woods, going to work, reading a book, getting up to get something. Now, getting up to get something, anything-that alone would be an accomplishment. From where I lay, all of life was out of reach.

As the months drifted by, it was hard to remember why the endless details of a healthy life and a good job had seemed so critical. It was odd to see my friends overwhelmed by their busy lives, when they could do all the things I could not, without a second thought.Whereas the future had once beckoned with many intriguing paths, now there was just one impossible route. So it was into the past, with its rich sedimentary layers, that my mind would go instead. A breath of wind through an open window stirred the memory of crossing Pen.o.bscot Bay on the bowsprit of a schooner. With the simple wish to brush my teeth came thoughts of my farmhouse bathroom, with its window view of the old apple trees and the poppy garden. It had amused me to see the laundry hanging on its line over the poppies; their yellows, oranges, and reds accented the blue sheets and the nightgowns, which reached with their arms down toward the flowers.

ON THE SECOND MORNING of the snail's stay, I found another square hole, this time in a list I was keeping on a sc.r.a.p of paper. As each successive morning arrived, so did more holes. Their square shape continued to perplex me. Friends were surprised and amused to receive postcards with an arrow pointing at a hole and my scrawled note: "Eaten by my snail." of the snail's stay, I found another square hole, this time in a list I was keeping on a sc.r.a.p of paper. As each successive morning arrived, so did more holes. Their square shape continued to perplex me. Friends were surprised and amused to receive postcards with an arrow pointing at a hole and my scrawled note: "Eaten by my snail."

It dawned on me that perhaps the snail needed some real food. Letters and envelopes were probably not its typical diet. A few long-gone flowers were in a vase by my bed. One evening I put some of the withered blossoms in the dish beneath the pot of violets. The snail was awake. It made its way down the side of the pot and investigated the offering with great interest and then began to eat one of the blossoms. A petal started to disappear at a barely discernible rate. I listened carefully. I could hear hear it eating. The sound was of someone very small munching celery continuously. I watched, transfixed, as over the course of an hour the snail meticulously ate an entire purple petal for dinner. it eating. The sound was of someone very small munching celery continuously. I watched, transfixed, as over the course of an hour the snail meticulously ate an entire purple petal for dinner.The tiny, intimate sound of the snail's eating gave me a distinct feeling of companionship and shared s.p.a.ce. It also pleased me that I could recycle the withered flowers by my bed to sustain a small creature in need. I might prefer my salad fresh, but the snail preferred its salad half-dead, for not once had it nibbled on the live violet plants that provided its sleeping shelter. One has to respect the preferences of another creature, no matter its size, and I did so gladly.

THE STUDIO APARTMENT WHERE I was staying had lots of windows and a beautiful view of a salt marsh. But the windows were far from where I lay, and I could not sit up to see out. Though they brought me light each day, the world they framed was beyond my reach. Unlike my own farmhouse, which was full of color, the walls and ceiling of this room where I woke each morning were entirely white-I felt trapped inside a stark white box. I was staying had lots of windows and a beautiful view of a salt marsh. But the windows were far from where I lay, and I could not sit up to see out. Though they brought me light each day, the world they framed was beyond my reach. Unlike my own farmhouse, which was full of color, the walls and ceiling of this room where I woke each morning were entirely white-I felt trapped inside a stark white box.

During the earlier years of my illness, I had spent countless hours on a daybed in my 1830s farmhouse, staring up at the hand-hewn beams overhead. Their rich, golden brown hues soothed my soul; the knots told a history of branches and long-ago wilderness; the square-headed nails sticking out here and there once had purpose. Each room in the house was trimmed in an old-fashioned milk-paint color. In the room where I lay, the trim was a deep blue, and I could turn my head to see red in the kitchen, green in the bathroom, and a calm gray in the front room.The daybed at home was right next to a window so that I could look out without sitting up. In the summer my perennial gardens were in view, untended but still thriving. I would watch for the arrival of friends as they came by foot, bike, or car, bringing stories to tell, and I'd wave them off as they set out again. When I woke each morning at dawn, several cats would be prowling the field. I'd hear my neighbors drive off to work, one by one. The morning slant of sun would climb toward noon and then shift its slant for afternoon. One by one my neighbors returned. Evening settled over the field, the cats took up their hunting in the long gra.s.s, and finally night descended.Though I was grateful for the care I was receiving here in this white room, I was not at home. It was hard enough that my body was a bizarre and bewildering place, but I was homesick as well. I was far from the things that delighted me, the wild woods that sustained me, and the social network that enriched me.Survival often depends on a specific focus: a relationship, a belief, or a hope balanced on the edge of possibility. Or something more ephemeral: the way the sun pa.s.ses through the hard, seemingly impenetrable gla.s.s of a window and warms the blanket, or how the wind, invisible but for its wake, is so loud one can hear it through the insulated walls of a house.

FOR SEVERAL WEEKS THE snail lived in the flowerpot just inches from my bed, sleeping beneath the violet leaves by day and exploring by night. Each morning while I was having breakfast it climbed back into the pot to sleep in the little hollow it had made in the dirt. Though the snail usually slept through the days, it was comforting to glance toward the violets and see its small circular shape tucked under a leaf. snail lived in the flowerpot just inches from my bed, sleeping beneath the violet leaves by day and exploring by night. Each morning while I was having breakfast it climbed back into the pot to sleep in the little hollow it had made in the dirt. Though the snail usually slept through the days, it was comforting to glance toward the violets and see its small circular shape tucked under a leaf.

Each evening the snail awoke and, with an astonishing amount of poise, moved gracefully to the rim of the pot and peered over, surveying, once again, the strange country that lay ahead. Pondering its circ.u.mstance with a regal air, as if from the turret of a castle, it waved its tentacles first this way and then that, as though responding to a distant melody.As I prepared for the night, the snail moved in its leisurely way down the side of the pot to the dish beneath. It found the flower blossoms I had placed there and began its breakfast.

3. EXPLORATIONS.

As the exploration is pressed, it will engage more of the things close to the human heart and spirit.

- EDWARD O. W O. WILSON, Biophilia, Biophilia, 1984

WHEN I WOKE DURING the night, I would listen intently. Sometimes the silence was complete, but at other times I could hear the comforting sound of the snail's minuscule munching. With my flashlight I'd search until the beam of light found its small shape. If it was eating, I'd peek to see which of the wizened flowers it preferred. It usually stayed within a few feet of the flowerpot, which sat on a crate that I was using as a bedside table. the night, I would listen intently. Sometimes the silence was complete, but at other times I could hear the comforting sound of the snail's minuscule munching. With my flashlight I'd search until the beam of light found its small shape. If it was eating, I'd peek to see which of the wizened flowers it preferred. It usually stayed within a few feet of the flowerpot, which sat on a crate that I was using as a bedside table.

Every few days I watered the violets from my drinking gla.s.s, and the excess water seeped into the dish beneath. This always woke the snail. It would glide to the rim of the pot and look over, slowly waving its tentacles in apparent delight, before making its way down to the dish for a drink. Sometimes it started back up, only to stop at a halfway point and go to sleep. Waking periodically, and without moving from its position, it would stretch its neck all the way down to the water and take a long drink.A little more dirt was needed around the roots of the violets, which my caregiver procured from the vegetable garden and added to the flowerpot. The snail was not not pleased. For the next few days it carefully crept up the side of the pot and directly onto a violet leaf, never touching the garden soil, settling in for the day's snooze perched high in the crown of the plant. Rather abashed, I asked for more help, and the sandy garden soil was exchanged for humus from the snail's own woods. Soon the snail was sleeping beneath the violet leaves again in a soft new hollow. pleased. For the next few days it carefully crept up the side of the pot and directly onto a violet leaf, never touching the garden soil, settling in for the day's snooze perched high in the crown of the plant. Rather abashed, I asked for more help, and the sandy garden soil was exchanged for humus from the snail's own woods. Soon the snail was sleeping beneath the violet leaves again in a soft new hollow.

IN THE 1920S, THE crate beneath the pot of violets had traveled to Burma and back with the belongings of my maternal grandparents. They were medical missionaries, and my grandfather's skill as a doctor was well respected. He treated many people with illnesses and injuries and even saved the life of a man severely mauled by a tiger. When the sawbwa of Kengtung's favorite elephant was ailing, my grandfather was called. Bravely, he lanced the elephant's giant boil and treated the virulent infection. crate beneath the pot of violets had traveled to Burma and back with the belongings of my maternal grandparents. They were medical missionaries, and my grandfather's skill as a doctor was well respected. He treated many people with illnesses and injuries and even saved the life of a man severely mauled by a tiger. When the sawbwa of Kengtung's favorite elephant was ailing, my grandfather was called. Bravely, he lanced the elephant's giant boil and treated the virulent infection.

My grandparents returned to New England, and my grandfather settled into life as a country doctor. The living room served as his office, and it was there that he saw patients. When I visited as a child, I was petrified he might hear me cough. A ticklish throat or the slightest pallor, and he'd rush to a large jar of revoltingly long tongue depressors, thrusting one down my gagging throat. Yet when he answered a patient's call, even in the middle of the night, his very first words were always "I am so sorry you are not feeling well." How rare it is to hear a doctor express such empathy.

AS THE WEEKS Pa.s.sED, the snail's nighttime forays became more adventurous, and so did its appet.i.te. The flowers I fed it clearly were not enough. One night it ate part of the label on a vitamin C bottle. Another night it climbed up a pastel drawing made by an artist friend and ate some of the green border. I woke one morning to find a hole in a padded envelope for mailing books.

More and more frequently, in the middle of the night, the snail set off on a longer journey into new territory. I'd discover it partway down the side of the crate, sometimes nearly to the floor. Often, it investigated the india ink words stamped into the wood. It seemed to have a particular interest in anything the color of rich, dark soil, like the crate's black lettering or the base of the lamp. It was equally attracted to white things such as paper. Perhaps, I thought, paper was its woody version of fast food.After being transported from the woods, the snail had emerged from its sh.e.l.l into the alien territory of my room, with no clue as to where it was or how it had arrived; the lack of vegetation and the desertlike surroundings must have seemed strange. The snail and I were both living in altered landscapes not of our choosing; I figured we shared a sense of loss and displacement.

EACH MORNING THERE WAS a moment, before I had fully awakened, when my mind still groped its clumsy way back to consciousness, my body not yet remembered, reality not yet acknowledged. That moment was always full of pure, sweet, uncontrollable hope. I did not ask for this hope to come; I did not even want it, for it trailed disappointment in its wake. Yet there it was, hovering within me-hope that my illness had vanished with the night and my health had returned magically with daybreak. But that moment always pa.s.sed, my eyes opened, and reality flooded in; nothing had changed at all. a moment, before I had fully awakened, when my mind still groped its clumsy way back to consciousness, my body not yet remembered, reality not yet acknowledged. That moment was always full of pure, sweet, uncontrollable hope. I did not ask for this hope to come; I did not even want it, for it trailed disappointment in its wake. Yet there it was, hovering within me-hope that my illness had vanished with the night and my health had returned magically with daybreak. But that moment always pa.s.sed, my eyes opened, and reality flooded in; nothing had changed at all.

Then I thought of the snail. I'd look for the tiny, earth-colored creature. Usually it was back up in the flowerpot asleep, its familiar shape reminding me that I wasn't alone.By day, the strangeness of my situation was sharpest: I was bed-bound at a time when my friends and peers were moving forward in their careers and raising families. Yet the snail's daytime sleeping habits gave me a fresh perspective; I was not the only one resting away the days. The snail naturally slept by day, even on the sunniest of afternoons. Its companionship was a comfort to me and buffered my feelings of uselessness.In the evenings there was a short but satisfying time when I knew the rest of the human world would join me, if just for the night, in my rec.u.mbent lifestyle. When healthy people take to their beds, they sink deeply into a privileged sleep. But with my illness, sleep was diaphanous and often nonexistent. The snail, once again, came to my rescue. As the world fell into sleep without me, the snail awoke, as if this darkest of times were indeed the best best of times in which to live. of times in which to live.After weeks of around-the-clock companionship, there was no doubt about the relationship: the snail and I were officially cohabiting. I was, I admit, attached. I felt some guilt that it had been taken, unasked, from its natural habitat, yet I was not ready to part with it. It was adding a welcome focus to my life, and I couldn't think how I would otherwise have pa.s.sed the hours.

Part 2

A GREEN KINGDOM.

Think not of the amount to be accomplished, the difficulties to be overcome, or the end to be attained, but set earnestly at the little task at your elbow, letting that be sufficient for the day.

- SIR WILLIAM OSLER, physician (1849 1919)

4. THE FOREST FLOOR.

I have set myself a goal, a certain rock, but it may well be dawn before I get there . . .

If and when I reach the rock, I shall go into a certain crack there for the night.

- ELIZABETH B BISHOP, from "Giant Snail," 1969 DESPITE ITS SMALL SIZE, the snail was a fearless and tireless explorer. Maybe it was searching for a trail back to its original woods or hoping to find better fare. Instinctively it knew its limits, how far it could travel during the night and still return home in the morning. On the crate's dry surface, the pot of violets was an oasis, offering water, food, and shelter.

Setting off on an expedition, its tentacles stretched out in antic.i.p.ation, the snail appeared confident about where it was going, as if what it was looking for was just a few inches farther along the crate. Watching it glide along was a welcome distraction and provided a sort of meditation; my often frantic and frustrated thoughts would gradually settle down to match its calm, smooth pace. With its mysterious, fluid movement, the snail was the quintessential tai chi master.I began to worry about how far the snail might go in the night, the difficulties it might encounter in its travels, and what risky thing it might choose to sample for a meal. Ink, pastels, and label glues didn't seem like good forage for a snail. This brought to mind a children's verse from the A. A. Milne poem "The Four Friends," about an elephant, a lion, a goat, and a small snail named James. "James gave the huffle of a snail in danger / And n.o.body heard him at all." I didn't think that a snail could make the sound of a huffle-but I didn't want to find out.Though the bed-and-breakfast arrangement in the flowerpot had worked for a while, I wanted the snail to have a safer and more natural home. There was a barn attached to the studio where I was staying, and in one of its dark corners my caregiver found an empty rectangular gla.s.s aquarium. This was soon converted into a roomy terrarium filled with fresh native plants and other materials from the snail's own woods: goldthread-aptly named for its colorful roots-holding its trio of delicate, paw-shaped leaves high on a thin stem; partridgeberry, with its round, dark green leaves and its small, bright red berries, which lasted for months; the larger, waxy leaves of checkerberry; many kinds of moss; small polypody ferns; a tiny spruce tree; a rotting birch log; and a piece of old bark encrusted with multicolored lichen.Gulls flying over the coastline sometimes drop mussels, and in the woods one often finds the empty blue sh.e.l.ls where they've landed in the moss. Such a sh.e.l.l, with its silvery inside, now served as a natural basin for fresh drinking water. With an old leaf here and a pine needle there, the terrarium looked as though a bit of native forest floor, with all its natural disarray, had been lifted up and placed inside. The moist, lush vibrancy of the plants reminded me of the woods after a rainstorm. It was a world fit for a snail, and it was a welcome sight for my own eyes as well.Within moments of moving into this rich kingdom, the snail came partway out of its sh.e.l.l. Its tentacles quivered with interest and it set off to investigate the new terrain. It crawled along the dead log, drank water out of the mussel sh.e.l.l, investigated the mosses, climbed up the terrarium's gla.s.s side, and then chose a dark, private corner and went to sleep nestled in some moss.While the snail slept, I explored the terrarium from my bed, letting my eyes wander through the miniature hills and dales of its fresh green landscape. The variety of mosses was so satisfying, from a deep, loose softness to dense mounds with fuzzy and velvety textures. Their hues ranged from bright gra.s.s greens to deep dark greens and from sharp lemon greens to light blue greens.Polypody ferns gently arched their beautiful four-inch fronds, their youngest fiddleheads still tightly curled. In my woods at home, along the brook, these ferns live on the sheer sides of granite boulders. They survive on a margin of rock where the air is humid and alive with the brook's energy, their rhizomes finding sustenance in cracks and crevices. Buried beneath winter's ice and snow each year, they magically send up new fronds every spring-a primeval perseverance.The fresh terrarium at my side was lovely all by itself-a green and growing ecosystem; that it provided a magnificent backdrop for the humble brown snail was all the better. While the snail must have missed its familiar woods, the terrarium at least offered a more comfortable and natural world than the flowerpot. The snail would be safe in the terrarium, safer even than in the wild, as there were no predators hiding behind a leaf or swooping down from the sky.As my snail watching continued, I wanted to know more about how to care properly for my small companion. My caregiver unearthed a decades-old paperback book t.i.tled Odd Pets, Odd Pets, by Dorothy Hogner. In addition to providing basic information on snails, Hogner suggested feeding them a diet of mushrooms. by Dorothy Hogner. In addition to providing basic information on snails, Hogner suggested feeding them a diet of mushrooms.There were some fresh portobellos in the kitchen refrigerator. A single portobello was about fifty times larger than my snail, and so my caregiver cut a generous slice and placed it in the terrarium. The snail loved the mushroom. It was so happy to have a familiar food, after weeks of nothing but wilted flowers, that for several days it slept right next to the huge piece of portobello, waking throughout the day to reach up and nibble before sinking back into a well-fed slumber. Each night a surprisingly large portion of the mushroom would vanish, until, by the end of the week, the very last piece had disappeared.

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 M MARIA R RILKE, 1903, from Letters to a Young Poet, 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. 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 sh.e.l.l and from this precarious position reach casually across open s.p.a.ce to eat some of the mushroom without falling or spilling water from the sh.e.l.l. 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 sh.e.l.l. Several times I was lucky enough to see it grooming; it arched its neck over the curved edge of its own sh.e.l.l 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 sh.e.l.l, 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 cuc.u.mber, 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 partic.i.p.ation 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.

6. TIME AND TERRITORY.

The velocity of the ill, however, is like that of the snail.

- EMILY D d.i.c.kINSON, in a letter to Charles H. Clark, April 1886

INCHES FROM MY bed and from each other stood the terrarium and a clock. While life in the terrarium flourished, time ticked away its seconds. But the relationship between time and the snail confused me. The snail would make its way through the terrarium while the hands of the clock hardly moved-so I often thought the snail traveled faster than time. Then, absorbed in snail watching, I'd find that time had flown by, unnoticed. And what about the unfurling of a fern frond? Its pace was undetectable, yet day by day it, too, reached toward its goal. bed and from each other stood the terrarium and a clock. While life in the terrarium flourished, time ticked away its seconds. But the relationship between time and the snail confused me. The snail would make its way through the terrarium while the hands of the clock hardly moved-so I often thought the snail traveled faster than time. Then, absorbed in snail watching, I'd find that time had flown by, unnoticed. And what about the unfurling of a fern frond? Its pace was undetectable, yet day by day it, too, reached toward its goal.

The mountain of things I felt I needed to do reached the moon, yet there was little I could do about anything, and time continued to drag me along its path. We are all hostages of time. We each have the same number of minutes and hours to live within a day, yet to me it didn't feel equally doled out. My illness brought me such an abundance of time that time was nearly all I had. My friends had so little time that I often wished I could give them what time I could not use. It was perplexing how in losing health I had gained something so coveted but to so little purpose.I eagerly awaited visitors, but the antic.i.p.ation and the extra energy of greetings caused a numbing exhaustion. As the first stories unfolded, my spirit held on to the conversation as best it could-I so wanted these connections to the outside world-but my body sank beneath waves of weakness. Still, my friends were golden threads randomly appearing in the monotonous fabric of my days. Each visit was a window that opened momentarily into the life I had once known, always falling shut before I could make my way back through. The visits were like dreams from which I awoke once more alone.As the snail's world grew more familiar, my own human world became less so; my species was so large, so rushed, and so confusing. I found myself preoccupied with the energy level of my visitors, and I started to observe them in the same detail with which I observed the snail. The random way my friends moved around the room astonished me; it was as if they didn't know what to do with their energy. They were so careless careless with it. There were spontaneous gestures of their arms, the toss of a head, a sudden bend into a full body stretch as if it were nothing at all; or they might comb their fingers unnecessarily through their hair. with it. There were spontaneous gestures of their arms, the toss of a head, a sudden bend into a full body stretch as if it were nothing at all; or they might comb their fingers unnecessarily through their hair.It took time for visitors to settle down. They sat and fidgeted for a while, then slowly relaxed until a calmness finally spread through them. They began to talk about more interesting things. But halfway through a visit, they would notice how little I moved, the stillness of my body, and an odd quietness would come over them. They would worry about wearing me out, but I could also see that I was a reminder of all they feared: chance, uncertainty, loss, and the sharp edge of mortality. Those of us with illnesses are the holders of the silent fears of those with good health.Eventually, discomfort moved through my visitors, nudging a hand into motion, a foot into tapping. The more apparent my own lack of movement, the greater their need to move. Their energy would turn into restlessness, propelling their bodies into action with a flinging of the arms or a walk around the room; a body is not meant to be still. Soon my visitors were off.My dog, Brandy, was a mix of golden retriever and yellow Lab. Even at eight years of age, her energy was extreme compared to my own. It was incredible that I, too, had once moved through life with such exuberance, with her at my side. From my bed I could give her sc.r.a.ps from my dinner and manage a few strokes of her soft ears. I loved her so, and her intense longing for more made me ache to leap from bed, fling open the door to the outside world, and escape, the two of us heading, once again, deep into the wild woods.

WHEREAS THE ENERGY OF my human visitors wore me out, the snail inspired me. Its curiosity and grace pulled me further into its peaceful and solitary world. Watching it go about its life in the small ecosystem of the terrarium put me at ease. I began to think about naming the snail, as it was an individual with its own unique character traits. I had learned in the book my human visitors wore me out, the snail inspired me. Its curiosity and grace pulled me further into its peaceful and solitary world. Watching it go about its life in the small ecosystem of the terrarium put me at ease. I began to think about naming the snail, as it was an individual with its own unique character traits. I had learned in the book Odd Pets Odd Pets that snails are hermaphrodites, which narrowed the options. But a human name didn't seem to fit. The snail was not just an individual creature that I was coming to know. It was introducing me in spirit to its entire line of gastropod ancestors, which, I guessed, reached far back in time. Looking into the terrarium was like entering that ancient era. From my rec.u.mbent bedside view, the ferns and mosses appeared as miniature forests and fields, and as I watched the snail go about its life, it seemed as if it lived in a timeless world without change. I liked the sound of the word "snail" every time I said it; the word was as small and simple as the creature itself. It is a word from Old English, with an earlier derivation from the German that snails are hermaphrodites, which narrowed the options. But a human name didn't seem to fit. The snail was not just an individual creature that I was coming to know. It was introducing me in spirit to its entire line of gastropod ancestors, which, I guessed, reached far back in time. Looking into the terrarium was like entering that ancient era. From my rec.u.mbent bedside view, the ferns and mosses appeared as miniature forests and fields, and as I watched the snail go about its life, it seemed as if it lived in a timeless world without change. I liked the sound of the word "snail" every time I said it; the word was as small and simple as the creature itself. It is a word from Old English, with an earlier derivation from the German schnecke, schnecke, for snail, spiral, or spiral-shaped yeast bun. So in the end I decided not to name my companion but to continue to refer to it as "the snail." for snail, spiral, or spiral-shaped yeast bun. So in the end I decided not to name my companion but to continue to refer to it as "the snail."

GIVEN ITS TINY FOOTPRINT, the snail had plenty of territory in the terrarium to survey in minute detail, finding endless nooks and crannies of interest. I, on the other hand, rarely moved beyond the familiar section of my sheets. Occasionally, when the snail slept and an urgent need for change-no matter the cost-swept through me, I would slowly roll from my right side over to my left side. This simple act caused my heart to beat wildly and erratically, but the reward was a whole new vista. The other side of the room was spread out before me like a map with countless possibilities of faraway adventures, including the most tantalizing of things, a window and a door.

Nothing, of course, was in reach. I could just see into the corner of the bathroom, where I knew, if I could only look farther in, I would find a claw-foot bathtub. Just to think of a bath, the kind one can settle into as if it were a relaxing, normal routine, caused an unfathomable longing. Across the room there was a shelf that held many books, each cover a different hue, their t.i.tles of possible interest if only I could decipher them, but the distance was too great. There was a window I could look out if only I could stand. And there was the door, the door to the outside world.Was this truly a door that I would someday open and walk through, as if walking out into the world were an ordinary thing to do? I would look at the door until it reminded me of all the places I could not go. Then, exhausted and empty from my audacious adventure, I'd make the slow roll back toward the kingdom of the terrarium and the tiny life it contained.

Part 3

JUXTAPOSITIONS.

The history of the . . . snail has been more copiously considered than that of the elephant; and its anatomy is as well, if not better, known: however, not to give any one object more room in the general picture of nature than it is ent.i.tled to, it will be sufficient to observe that the snail is surprisingly fitted for the life it is formed to lead.

- OLIVER G GOLDSMITH, A History of the Earth and Animated Nature, 1774

7. THOUSANDS OF TEETH.

The mouth of the snail is armed with a very formidable instrument in the shape of a remarkable sword-like tongue . . . [ [with an] immense number of excessively sharp immense number of excessively sharp little teeth . . . The quant.i.ty of these teeth is incredible.