I write but never edit so thus, never post. So I figured I’d just write and post. And maybe next time I’ll edit. But no promises. Ahem. Clearing my throat. Here goes…nothing.
In deserts, I could see for miles. No trees.
In the high elevations of dry Nevada, I walked through dusty trails surrounded by Pines. The air was harsh and dry when I breathed, reminiscent of Christmastime.
The Bald Cypress had long, finger-like toes that clung to the bottom of bayous in the deep South. Damp, muddied scents of stagnant water heady in the air.
I have sought out deserts.
And forests.
Caves.
And oceans.
I swam with manatees.
Watched alligators watching me.
I stalked owls.
They made camp beside me.
Hundreds of pictures of leaves. Of cacti. Flowers. Dirt. Sky. Earth.
I was in awe of the size of leaves in Louisiana. Touched them, not knowing if I'd find myself scratching my eczema from it.
I gasped in San Diego in February when purple flowers bloomed on hills.
Nature.
Horrifying and wondrous.
It was warm, not hot, when we camped outside of Joshua Tree National Park.
In the evening, I stepped outside when the sun had dipped below the horizon.
My heart sank. I wasn't prepared to drive our RV in the snow. And we were surrounded by it. In 50-plus degree weather.
But it wasn't snow.
I had assumed it was. It was late November, Thanksgiving, actually.
Instead, it was just glistening white sand in the moonlight.
When we finally landed in Tennesee and decided to build our plot of life here, the land was mostly treed. But, between the trees, climbing on the trees, covering the ground,
invasive plants.
They're still here.
Fewer though.
Between the two of us, we've managed to rip out thousands of blackberries and Japanese honeysuckle. The honeysuckle is so strong that it climbs a foot a day sometimes and forces the limbs and weak trees to bend to its will, pulling them to the ground.
And it is everywhere.
On the day after I’d spent 6 hours pulling vines, I could see them when I closed my eyes. For nights, I dreamt of vines poking my eyes, and grabbing my hair.
There are no ageratum seeds planted in my garden, even though I purchased them. Those soft, fluffy purple blooms.
There's milkweed, but only swamp. The tropical one: so much showier, but an ecological trap for Monarchs.
No butterfly bushes, despite their beautiful blooms.
Everywhere I go, I notice the plants. The nature.
It is, after all, everywhere.
It creeps under my shoes in the form of English Ivy, which my neighbors insist is beautiful, and I insist on uprooting.
Beside our home is a tree. 130 years old. A Black Oak. In winter, its branches are bare, the limbs like tentacles.
And now, this spring, while all the surrounding leaves emerge their greens, the oak tree branches are still bare.
We spent nearly a week's worth of salary trying to save it. Hours of research.
Four men came in harnesses, addressing the issues, spraying it with various hormones to encourage growth at its base and center, not at the tips of the branches.
They swung for hours between the branches, cutting, pulling.
And when they came down, all the branches they had fallen were chipped, and I mulched the tree's base, inches deep.
One of the men came up to us, younger than me, exuberant, excited, yet sad.
"Usually, when I get up into the trees," he said, "it's always less bad than what we think from the ground."
He had been so full of hope the week before.
"This tree is worse."
He pointed to us where the growth on the trees was not just lichen but fungus that was attacking the tree.
Then, squinting, we shielded our eyes with hands as he pointed higher. Thirty feet, maybe more.
"That's where it was struck by lightning," he said.
There was a large dark gash in the tree. It didn't mean it would fall, but it was something to watch for.
Then, we waited six months. When we walked out one day in late Summer, we sighed. "We need to call them back to cut down the tree.
We waited six more.
And now, we know. It is gone.
It stands there, but the only leaves that hang are brown. When the wind blows, the leaves sound crunchy. The sound of Autumn. In April. The last leaves of that old Black Oak.
It is no longer difficult to see where the lightning hit many years ago.
There is nature there, still, but it is ants. And woodpeckers. And fungus.
The tree stands, but not for long. Each day, another branch falls. During storms, we walk out, and the wood that has dropped is rotten.
The pieces crumble in my fingers. Perfect for hugelkulture, I tell myself and lug them to my garden.
And as much as I want to save it, I know it is gone. Surrounding the base is the Japanese honeysuckle. It was not there a week or two ago. It climbs, and winds, and reminds. Tells me that no matter what I do, nature will do what is has always done.