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.
(Orig. posted in Oct. 2011)
