I'll begin with an assertion: I think it is critically important that we find for ourselves an authentic way of relating to the native ecosystems we are now advocating for. This is not a new notion and is rooted in generationally composed ideas that humans have been tending with care.
It’s difficult for me to make assertions most of the time. This may not be surprising to those of you who know me more intimately. It’s not the wild jabs at a system, crude claims, and strong judgements that are difficult – these are simply coping mechanisms, a way to hide from the uncomfortable process of actually figuring out how I really feel about something. Finding nuance, finding real understanding of what I am trying to say is where the tension lies. A joke allows me to hide behind laughter.
I often feel like I don’t belong in the conversation about what to do about the twisted system holding us down – or the one about how to learn to appreciate fully the beautiful planet we inhabit – so I quip and quack and hope that, if at least for entertainment, I'll be saved a seat at the table.
This isn’t healthy, I know. But I feel trapped by the criticism of myself that rises to the surface readily, stunningly apparent, even when others wouldn't think twice about what I have done or said. “Would you think poorly of me if this is what I am?” Regardless of how deep I dig to uncover the pillars of my life, as I find self-confidence, the question inevitably arises at some point – why do you let me come back?
It's like this. Imagine a field of native grass amidst a site with a history of industrial pollution. Whether these grasses were intentionally planted or a clump of seeds happened to land in a patch with the right conditions doesn't matter a whole lot. What matters is that these plants are here and that you learn their names and that you begin to build a relationship with them. Thank you Robin Wall-Kimmerer. Thank you Annie Dillard. Thank you Wendell Berry.
I spent time with this field of native grasses. I harvested bunches, feeling myself into some dreamlike present, tending to life, carrying something lovely back, holding myself upright as long as I was able. I wondered about harvesting too much and was reassured by the spiders who crawled up my sleeves and bit me that my simple acknowledgements were enough. A dozen itchy bites – integration, swelling, healing, communion – a reminder that what I see as the possibility of a new way of living is already somebody's home. It’s already been figured out.
So they bit me, enough times to say, "yes, take this grass as a gift but do not forget about us."
I made bundles with the grass. I made paper from the moldy hardened pulp that had been sitting for two decades in the basement of the old mill. I strung them from the ceiling and protected them with a circle of dust. At times I felt like I was building an idol. Other times I was being gifted flowers.
Do not forget about us, the spiders said. Do not forget that we are embedded in a web of life. It is no less dramatic than that. We are stuck, but it is ok. Dream, yes. But be careful that your dreams don't overshadow what is in front of you. Make from your life a bouquet of what is here.
