So Much Sorrow

 So Much Sorrow

that doesn't stop coming
Like the parched autumn
landscape
day after day of drought
Or skinny deer
in a lean mast year
wandering in search of acorns
Or tree swallows' fruitless
flights
to gather insects
in a drizzling cold
April

Like wilted September spicebushes
who wait for rain
perhaps
someday
showers will fall
and we
will be revived
once again

Detritus

Castoffs,
no longer wanted, 
abandoned, discarded,
littering the forest floor. 
One can step on them without
even noticing,
without valuing, or honoring,
or savoring
their former lives.
Bits of shell and seeds, an acorn cap, 
dried leaves and withering berries,
a hodgepodge of evidence
that life and purpose thrived here,
a season ago.

Now, 
amid what was scattered,
a promise of 
nothing wasted. 
The makings of a whole new woodland
lie dormant,
resting, waiting 
to sprout and grow.
New from the old,
refashioned from the 
detritus of what was, 
once upon a time. 

Autumn Budding

 

Pale green against the twigs
and fading summer leaves, 
they hang as an enigma,
as a deposit on what will emerge
months from now,
on the other side of winter.

Young catkins protecting tiny
grains of ripening pollen
growing deep within,
holding on by strength of stem 
and will,
soon buffeted by cold and 
winter's worst, withered
grueling days of getting by
while the darkling world is frozen.

And what of us? 
Like catkins,
battered by grief and confusion,
we deepen into the fruit of
what we are becoming.
Like a pregnant mama's experience of
awkward bodily disruptions,
punctuated by exhaustion,
discomfort, uncertainty...
uncomfortable growth
that supports the newness she will bear.
We will bear.

Next summer, there will be hazelnuts.

Giant's Toes

The last few weeks have been full of the experience of caring for my former spiritual director in her last days and finally, the exhausting honor and privilege of accompanying her to the far edge of her life. This morning, I went looking for anchors.

 

What keeps them standing, against the odds
of gravity, wind and rain,
of eagles nests and woodpeckers'
excavations and human
intrusions?

What anchors them in tumultuous times, 
branches whipping wildly,
their trunks swaying to the
rhythm of the wind
as storms seem bent on destruction?

I know of roots and cambium,
of heartwood, xylem and phloem,
but what of these curious protrusions 
that grip the earth as if
holding on for dear life?

Surely we need whimsy in the face
of what feels like chaos.
We need to let our minds
run free and welcome the moments of 
imagination that allow us to breathe again
and to smile, if only in passing. 

They are the giants' toes, of course.

Saying Goodbye

They were here this morning, 
the young pileated woodpecker
and his mother,
chipping away at the old stump,
foraging for sustenance, 
for grubs, worms and borers,
foraging for what would be soon
no longer alive.

Today, we will say goodbye to our 
old dog, whose weary heart
is failing. So much of
life shared together,
memories etched into our
very hearts.
How difficult to let him go.

We will place him  
in the hedgerow, 
his body to nourish the 
young trees and shrubs that will
sustain the wild ones who come.

"Important work happens within us
when we stop and allow 
ourselves to be open." * 
And so, may I be open to
the deepening 
that comes with the
chosen acceptance
of grief.

* The Pilgrim Spirit, Andrea Skevington, pg. 20

Life and Death and Orange Jewels

My husband's 94 year old mother died last week, a sad and difficult woman in life and in death. I am weary and so this morning I needed the woodland's embrace and there I found the refreshment and the solace I knew were waiting for me. I went looking for life, life in all its fullness, life of the forest floor - creatures, plants, fungi...all of it. 

On the short bank beside the woodland road, I came across a colony of tiny, bright orange mushrooms, themselves feeding on decaying matter...matter that is no longer alive, but giving life to these jewels of the forest. 

And in the distance, stood what first appeared to be a lone white mushroom... 

... standing like a single sentry guarding its place in the leaf litter. 

However, upon closer inspection, I realized that I had almost stepped on its nearly invisible companion of a different species, a couple of feet away. 

Two different species of fungi, quietly going about the work they were given to do, decomposing fallen leaves and branches, returning nutrients to the soil. Perhaps their mychorriza mysteriously co-mingle beneath the duff as they coil around tree roots, providing the giants greater access to needed water and minerals and a means of communication, tree to tree.

I have been thinking about death during these last few weeks and about its effect on those who are left behind, for death is never a solitary event. If we give ourselves to its effect, even in our agitation and deep sense of loss, over time we will be deepened and made acutely aware of and sensitive to that which is still alive...still alive in us, in those we care about, in the order of the natural world. I find the encouragement of God in the life of the fungi, strange as that might seem at first glance. They demonstrate that there is far more to each individual than what might be visibly recognized. Though their above-ground fruiting bodies wither away in due time, their life continues on in mystery, hidden away in where they can no longer be seen. And, because of fungi's role, though individual plants and creatures die, their life is never completely ended, for it is always recycled for the well being of another.  

In this season of coming face to face, again, with the reality of death I am reminded, again, of the abundance of life and my grateful participation in it. 

Once Again

The light has turned. Every year it happens and every year it catches me by surprise. Just when I think summer will never end, it begins to wane.

The foretelling was there, of course, in the raucous hummingbird migration and the enfolding chorus of droning cicadas, crickets and katydids. Insect calls have picked up where spring's bird song left off and the surrounding woods are filled with rhythmic rattling and tinkling throughout the day and well into the evening. The birds are not entirely silent but they are collectively quieter now than earlier in the season. A couple of early morning wood thrushes trill, a single wood peewee whistles, a red-throated vireo questions, and then all is silent again, apart from the insects.

Monarchs float across the landscape, nectaring and laying eggs that will turn into this year's migrants heading to Mexico in a month or so. Lavender mistflower is coming into bloom, and early goldenrod and ironweed dot the roadsides, deep golds and purples, colors of royalty. Scattered here and there through the woodlands stand solitary black gums dressed crimson, harbingers of early autumn, soon to come.

Except for the manic hummingbirds, the season seems to pause, like the river that stills momentarily between the rising and falling tides. Such is an illusion however, as flowers set seeds, wild fruit ripens, insects mate and birds and mammals fatten for whatever lies in the months ahead. 

I am caught between savoring today's unfolding, and knowing what is to come. Predictably, I swing between exhilaration and melancholy, between breathing in the sweetness of each late-summer moment and grieving for what will soon disappear- osprey and barn swallows, butterflies and singing insects, flowers and foliage. 

O, to be like a child, living each day fully for itself, as yet unpracticed in anticipating change. And yet...might not this unwanted anticipation become the very fuel of my gratitude  for what is now ?

In the Time of Goldfinches and Hummingbirds

"Where do you want to be?" she asked. The veterinarian, who has become my friend, was here to release my old, beloved, little dog from her pain and the discomfort of a large, inoperable, abdominal tumor. My mind slowly numbing, I clutched at the reality that would allow me to bear the next few minutes well, and we went to the front porch. How many times, in how many seasons, have Mollie and I sat on that porch, soaking in the life around us?

These last few days, the tinkling begging calls of goldfinch young and the combative whizzing of hummingbirds have been the audible indicators that summer is waning. Through the open windows, I hear the reminders from early morning until after sunset, so eager are they to take in the nourishment they need to forge ahead into the next stages of their lives. Though Mollie could no longer hear, she watched their comings and goings so closely that I half-feared for the fate of any hummingbirds who swooped down too fearlessly, in their quest to figure out what she was.

As the three of us sat quietly together, I was filled with gratitude for life itself.  For the life of Mollie, for the life of my friend, for the life of the wild ones that surrounded and comforted us, for my own life, and for the life of the Spirit who was so near and present with us. The ancient Christian Celts believed that when God created the world, He did not create it out of nothing, but created it out of Himself and, as a result, they, and I, believe that He has mysteriously left bits of Himself, in all that is. Bits of Himself that connected Mollie and I to each other, during those last moments. Bits that connect me to the wild creatures and to the sources of nourishment that support them. 

Though deeply saddened at Mollie's passing, I know that in loving her, and in caring for and delighting in so many lives in this world...those of people, of wild and domestic animals, of birds and insects, of trees and forbs, I have grown and I have been deepened, through no effort of my own, other than the loving. May it be so for you.

Juxtaposition

Some thoughts from a few years ago, applicable today.

The seasonal, penetrating cold has returned and, as I looked out on the yard recently, I was surprised to see two bluebirds dropping into the winterberry bushes, foraging on the berries. I see them on my walks and know that they stay the winter, living on the various berries they find and what insects they can glean from the fields but I have not seem them visit my yard in January up till now. Just behind them was a red-bellied woodpecker eating from the suet cake and peanut feeder and I was struck by the contrasts in the two bird species... one larger and one smaller, one rather drab and one vibrant blue, one eating from a man-made food source and one from what the bushes naturally provide. Both were welcomed with what sustenance my yard could offer and both stayed a while and then moved on, leaving only memories behind.

The words “In the bleak midwinter, frosty winds made moan. Earth stood hard as iron, water like a stone” are from of one of my favorite Christmas carols, though the images portrayed hit closer to home during these couple of months after Christmas. The earth is hard and frozen right now and it takes all the imagination I can muster to believe that anything will ever spring from it again. And yet even as I look out on the barren landscape I am working on a program about gardening with native plants that includes numerous photographs of gardens ablaze with color. Many of the slides are of my own yard and I am again surprised at what the earth holds beneath its now-unyielding surface. Today snow is in the forecast and to those not botanically minded its coming might seem to forestall the promise of spring's re-blooming. To gardeners, however, snow is welcomed as an insulating blanket, protecting the life that lies in waiting until the time is right to emerge once again.

I sometimes think about seasons of grief and anguish in the same way. The times that seem so hopeless and forlorn can hide away in their depths the seeds of new vision and renewed purpose. Though those seeds seem deeply buried, when the time becomes right and conditions become favorable they stretch out and grow into something unexpectedly glorious if we give them a chance. I was reminded of this contrast during a recent discussion about the relationship between grief and bitterness... an inverse relationship, I should add. I have become convinced that the more genuinely and the more deeply we allow ourselves to grieve our losses and our pain, the more likely we are to come through them with hearts still soft and spirits free from bitterness. It is into such hearts that peace returns and wholeness is restored. If we allow Him, God will come to us in our grief as we admit that we have no control over events or hurts that so affect our lives. Bitterness, on the other hand, pushes God away. It is our vain attempt to deny how seriously we have been wounded and in its determination to protect us from being in such a fearful position ever again, it poisons and imprisons us.

The choice of how we respond to pain is ours alone to make. And in the choosing, unbeknownst to us, we turn towards life in its fullness or a slow erosion of the spirit. Grieving causes us to be confronted with just how vulnerable we really are in this world and yet, in a mysterious juxtaposition, it can bring the freedom to become who we have been created to be. Grieving, and its companion Forgiveness, are the only remedy to a life of bitterness and hardness of heart. Together they create the fertile soil that nourishes our soul and the beauty that lies within us, waiting to be reborn.

Much Needed Respite

I wrote this piece some time ago, but, in honor of a friend who has just put down one of her best friends of the last 12 years, I am posting it again. As I have read the words, I realize how true they are for me, yet again, in these corporate days of uncertainty, as well as private wrestlings. May they bless you, as well. What I write of the garden, is also abundantly true of spending time anywhere in the natural world.

Pollinators, pollinators everywhere in the yard! Bees of all shapes and sizes, butterflies and hummingbirds...Everywhere I look there is buzzing, humming and the fluttering of wings...swamp milkweed, green-headed coneflower, ironweed, joe-pye weed, cardinal flower, garden phlox all playing host to our tiny native wildlife… I feel like a shepherdess winding through the plantings, keeping watch over her flock, ensuring that what they need for life and health is provided.

I have spent much of my day outside today, longing for peace and respite from the upheaval and concern of these tumultuous times. Sometimes I go into the garden as a scientist, to watch and observe the biological interactions. Sometimes I go for the joy of myriad colors, fragrances and bounty of life. But sometimes I wander into the garden because I am troubled, and it becomes a place of sanctuary, a place of refuge for me as much as for wildlife.

The longer we live, the longer we love people and pets, places and endeavors, the greater the loss when they are gone. Over the years, loss upon loss changes us and makes us more tender or more hardened, more pliable or more rigid. We either cooperate with such painful formation or we resist it. 

Stepping into my backyard, where the wild comes to live alongside me, does not remove the fears or losses of my life, but it provides a space large enough to hold the accompanying emotions and ensures comfort as no other place can. The life found there pries my eyes off myself and points them to something, and Someone, greater than my worries. I am reminded that there are seasons and cycles to life and that calm really does return after storms.  I am reminded that life goes on. The garden that was created to be a home for wildlife has also become home to me. It has become a habitat for all.

Let There Be Beauty

I am borrowing the title of this post from Rebecca Reynolds, who wrote the words, and Ron Block who wrote the music on one of my favorite CD's, Walking Song. The words and tune go through my mind often, but this afternoon I lost them, for a while, anyway. All of a sudden the nation's and the world's pain became overwhelming and I was at a complete loss to know how to respond, both to other's pain and to my own. I felt paralyzed in the knowing. 

 I thought a bit about writing, but what could I possibly have to say that would change anyone's situation or lift anyone's spirits? The kinds of things I write about seemed superfluous, almost a luxury and a voice in the back of my mind condemned my best efforts, "Why would you think that writing about the natural world would do anyone any good, anyway?!" Why, indeed.

In what felt like desperate attempt to reconnect with who I am and the life I have been given to live, I grabbed my camera and went outside to document (and maybe prove to myself) that there is, indeed, still beauty to be found in the world. Perhaps some will consider this an escape, a way of dulling or turning away from the hurts that seem to surround us, right now. Perhaps it is, but I have found that, at the times when my own life felt like it was falling apart, that it was the outdoors and the beauty I found there that helped hold me together and gave me hope that things would not always remain as they were in the moment. This afternoon, I did the same.

And so, I offer these glimpses into the world around where I live, in hopes that they will bring comfort or smiles to any who need both. The beauty found here doesn't change circumstances, but it reminds me that God is at work, and that we are not forsaken. 

The first, above, is simply the house in which we live, filled with flowers on the porch and the playing of sunlight and shadows.

Zebra swallowtail and carpenter bee on Virginia mountain mint

A pot of humble purple coneflowers, waiting to go into the ground

Visitors in the backyard

A welcoming haven-winterberries for birds and white snakeroot for pollinators

Up close

White wood asters in the front yard

And flowers for a friend's going away , an expression of love and appreciation

And, in case you are wondering about the title, the refrain from their song....
"Let there be beauty for beauty is good, the made and the making and the bliss understood. 
 Let there be beauty for beauty is free. Go swim in the waters, go drink from the stream"

Where is Home?

Today, a new friend asked me, "Where is home, Ann?"  An easy enough question but I did not know what to say.  What she really meant was,"Where do you feel at home?" and that is what gave me pause.  A few weeks ago I had the opportunity to spend hours walking a northeast Pennsylvania woodland whose oaks, hickories, maples, black gums,  various viburnums and fall blooming asters and goldenrods glowed with the colors of fall. I felt a deep sense of "rightness", being in that space, one that overshadowed the awareness that I would soon be leaving to return to southern Maryland. I felt "at home" there, but those mountains were not where I live.

I lived in Lancaster County, Pennsylvania for almost thirty years before moving to start life anew in Accokeek five and a half years ago. And many times over, in the course of these last five years, I have returned to visit my children and their children, good friends and familiar places in central Pennsylvania and I have longed to stay. There are memories everywhere I look... memories that span thirty years of my life. When I am there, central PA feels like home, but we do not live there either.

We have lived in southern Maryland for more than five years now,and lately I sense this place beginning to have a "homeness" to it that I have not experienced here before. Such an awareness is an unpredictable and transient realization these days, but at least it I recognize it when it comes, however briefly. As I always do, I am working on new gardens at this new/old place where we live now and recently I counted the number of gardens I have tended and then left in the last going-on-six years of moving around. I was startled that this is my fifth garden in almost as many years. I have read about gardeners who love to move and begin new gardens, but I am not one of them. 

As I thought of my friend's question this afternoon, I looked around at the woodlands that surround our home and questioned whether it was living in the midst of this splendor that is allowing that sense of "homeness" to come creeping in. But no, I have appreciated and enjoyed many beautiful natural settings without feeling connected to them with any sense of permanence, and so that isn't it. And then I realized what I have been doing the last couple of weeks, what I do every fall when the leaves begin their glorious transformation...I have been planting the landscape, once again, for color and for wildlife. I have planted dogwoods and crabapples for birds, more salvias for next years's hummingbirds, asters, goldenrods, thorougworts and a host of other natives for next years pollinators. As has been and will be for as long as I am able, it is the planting of habitat that links me to where I live, the partnering with the Creator in sustaining the life that lives around me. 

This afternoon, I wondered more about why this is so..why does creating homes for wildlife mean so much to me, other than that I value their presence? And then I realized...I grew up without a sense of home. My family moved twelve times in my first thirteen years and I attended four colleges before finally managing to finish. After graduating, I lived in nine different houses within eight communities in two countries over the course of the next eleven years, finally living at and coming to love the last house for twenty one years before moving to Maryland and beginning all over again, several times. Creating homes for wild creatures who need them is the only way I know to root myself into where I live. The transient life I have lived accounts, at least in part, for the deep longing and sense of vulnerability I sometimes feel...the tendency towards feeling lost and lonely, without moorings and the connection of place. Creating  spaces for creatures to live their lives in relative safety and stability affords me the opportunity to do the same. I am humbly grateful for their companionship and for that of our Creator God who lives among us.

Starting Over Again

Next month, it will be five years since we moved to Accokeek. We started out in this house, moved to the farm for three years, and now are back to where we began our life in Maryland. Now and again, I experience a fleeting remembrance of that initial wonder at living in this local landscape of woodlands, wetlands and fields all around us; of bald eagles, osprey, hermit thrushes, pileated and red-headed woodpeckers as common daily experience. It was about this time in February when my husband and I first explored the nearby boardwalk running between the almost-sleeping marsh and the Potomac River, and I realized that a long-held, but almost forgotten, hope to someday live near a wetland was soon to be fulfilled.

The last year has been one of the most challenging of my life, as we faced the need to move from the farm I had hoped would be our home for as long as we lived in Maryland. Lately, I have been more closely examining just why the prospect of starting over, yet again, has been so traumatic and, recently, was led to an article that finally brought clarity, and with the clarity, an understanding that allows me to move forward. The author of the article had been raised in a military family, as had I, and, like me, she moved every two or three years of her life, never putting down roots or thinking of any place as home. When she was faced with moving from the first little house she ever owned, it caused the same aching anguish that I experienced when we moved from Pennsylvania, and again, when we moved from the farm back to this house. It wasn't that the places we were moving toward were not filled with possibility and promise, but that, for the first time in our lives, we belonged to a place and a place belonged to us... a place that held and nourished us, that vibrated with memories lived and made, that was ours. 

Sometimes, just affirming our emotions and the origins from which they spring is enough to grant us the freedom to move on. I am tentatively working towards believing that home doesn't need to promise permanence in order to be a place of belonging in the now. Come spring, the house in the picture will be alive with the native plants I have tucked into the landscape, even in the depths of winter, and the creatures who will come to visit them. That some of the plants and shrubs I planted here three years ago have survived, and even thrived, is a most welcome gift and a reminder that nothing we do is ever lost. We may no longer be able to see the effects of our labors, or of our loving, but surely the good that we do will surely continue to ripple out, blessing the world, its creatures and its people in one way or another.