The Reminder
I walk past it most days, though I wasn’t there when it happened.
Just inside the woods that thicken up the north edge of the field, about six yards in, a stand of young black walnut and blue beech saplings holds the body of a much larger fallen ash, suspended four feet above ground. It looks almost staged, an art installation set in place by some invisible human hand.
I first came upon the scene three years ago, the day after a fierce storm flattened what remained of the open field’s goldenrod, thistle and ironweed stalks and left gaping holes in the forest’s canopy, taking out hollowed and vigorous trees alike. I pushed through the brambles and Virginia creeper, approaching it with a respectful curiosity tempered with caution (widow makers like these are everywhere in the woods; perhaps it wasn’t done falling). As I gingerly placed my hand on the grooved bark, I felt the solid heavy length of wood beneath. Wedged snugly in the line of trees that caught it, this gentle giant wasn’t going anywhere. In the morning walks that followed, I tried to find the sheared-off stump and couldn’t, feeding my ever-hungry love of questions that have no answers. The forest had apparently held its own retreat, conducted a trust fall activity for its participants and I got to bear witness to the small group that stayed behind still cradling one of its own. On one particular walk, for no particular reason, I whispered "“hello, Wonder of Physics” as I went by, and this benedictive ritual wove its way into my daily steps, becoming once again prayer and acknowledgement of my place in the scheme of things. Many steps and sunrises later, that whispered greeting has grown into the following: “Hello, Wonder of Physics, Testament to Interdependence, Evidence of Community, Example of Support, Sign of Trust, Thing of Beauty”. I then lower my gaze and ask whatever leaves and wood rot might be listening, “may I be some or all of that for someone today” and keep walking, intent on making that promise stick before my head hits the pillow so many hours later.
Not a bad way to start the day.
Patrick and I live in the belly of a perpetual classroom with endless teachers, some of whom we’ve never met, whose lessons are delivered while we sleep. While our shared existence has no grand and singular Purpose, we are rooted in and pivot from an anchored place of attentiveness as we move through our days. It’s exhilarating and exhausting and sometimes we miss things. But those lessons are always there, on the other side of windows and doors that we try to leave open for as long as the seasons allow. It’s wondrous how the same apple tree on the edge of the meadow has something slightly new to reveal each time I stand beneath her slender branches. When I stop to pat the ring-striped bark of her trunk, I smile and imagine who she’s fed in her lifetime. Who have I fed in my lifetime? No comparison and yet, we’re both doing our best with what we are. Thank you, sister.
I walk on good days and not-so-good days, and I don’t mean the weather (editorial note: the weather is neither, since it doesn’t exist to please us. If we find rain or the endlessness of February uncomfortable, that’s ours to reckon with. The universe isn’t arranged for our convenience). Sometimes, I boot up and step out, all preoccupied and self-absorbed, and the land receives it just as generously as she does my full attention, healing me no matter what I think I need. Troubled thoughts are composted until they become a fresh outlook, a more honest perspective, all of which usually resolves by the time I get back to the house. I feel a slight twinge on the way to work, wishing I hadn’t squandered all my walking time being harsh and judg-y about others (or myself). Maybe I’ll get to try again tomorrow.
When I do get that chance, I slow down on the path as I come to that place of Humility, and now the dead ash’s bark is hanging in strips from the solid wood beneath, on its way to becoming some other being’s home, or breakfast, or day’s work to recycle. It’s still a wonder, still evidence that living things are designed, designed, to support one another and that includes the human community too. Call it luck or burden or both; we are asked to join in and do the best we can. Lessons like these are to be carried forward; this place of majesty, mystery and wonder on the path reminds me to do just that.
Dear reader, whom will you catch in your strong and capable arms today? How will you live up to the Wonder of Physics that you are? Are you willing to be someone’s evidence that community is not just possible but real? And can you claim your own beauty without question, denial or false modesty?
Fellow student of life, I deeply and sincerely hope you’ll consider it.
