Maybe today’s blog could
be about last week’s steep and gorgeous hike up Mt. Thorp, with 360 degree
views of jagged, snow covered peaks from the summit’s lookout; or the last of
the year’s wildflowers (red Indian paintbrush) we saw near the peak; or the
tremendously huge red cedars and Douglas firs that swooned above us; or the
sweet, fat wild blueberries we plucked and popped into our hiking-weary bodies
on our descent. Maybe I don’t know what to write because I am exhausted,
feeling myself turn to the quiet, cozy, inner soul-hearth of my still self on
this dark autumn morning. If I had taken a picture of today’s dawn outside my
cottage, it would have shown a scene layered in fog, dark olive gray, where
trees are apparitions until they finally disappear altogether. It would be a
static image, though; it wouldn’t capture the continually shifting light,
clouds, clearings and obfuscations of the fog. But there will be no photos of
fog here today; there will be no reminiscence of last Friday’s hike. The simple
alders in my yard have written their way into this morning’s journal:
The alders are taking their time in this
autumn season. One yellow leaf here. Two there. No rush. No blazes. They are
more still and quiet than I can imagine possible. With the “ocean” of air
outside, how can the trees look breathlessly motionless? It is as if they are
holding their breath. They are statue-esque in their incredible, tall,
“mountain” yoga pose. They do this their entire, amazing lives. Their whole
lives. Until one day (if a person with a chainsaw doesn’t beat them to it), the
roots resting in extra sodden soil, (while the branches are shaken and moved by
the wind’s strong breath), begin to lose their grip. The mud gives way just an
inch, a bit, until the sure stability of the tree becomes compromised.
Just…enough…until the moment when, silently and slowly, it leans beyond
standing and the alder topples to the earth, lying there tragic and at rest.
One more forest tree down.
This happened two
years ago. I was sitting at my desk working, when out of the corner of my eye I
saw movement out the window. I looked up just in time to see one tall alder
very…very…slowly…tip into gravity until it nearly-silently fell onto the grass.
The alpacas who - at that time - resided in the field across the road, looked
stunned. All four were lined up in a row with their heads facing the downed
alder. Staring. Still as the tree once was on a breezeless day. The alpacas
remained that way for nearly half an hour; the tree remained that way –
prostrate on the ground – until the chainsaw came two days later, in the
freedom of a weekend day, and sliced the trunk into bits, preparing it for the
fireplace that coming winter. I was sad to see the leftovers of tree flesh on
the ground after the alder had been removed; the sawdust, branches, leaves, and
twigs that remained in the path of the fallen alder live inside me now. The
imprint of the tree on the grass, the “litter” left behind when the tree had
been removed, faded long ago. The alder’s journey, from upstanding forest
member to fuel for my neighbor’s winter hearth, lives as a series of fixed
images inside my own inner hearth – the place of love, memory, and creative
inspiration.
I am glad I paid
attention to the red alders outside my west windows this morning. While it
takes almost nothing to be aware, it requires everything to remember to be
present.
All blog photographs taken by Jennifer J. Wilhoit unless otherwise noted.
