the des plaines river trail is in several sections. there’s a section that circles round a lake. there’s a section that loops through the forest. and there are sections that run next to the river. in order to control invasive species and to maintain resources, the state of illinois has controlled burns each spring and fall. oaks and hickories have thick bark to shield them and native plant species have deep taproot systems to survive the intense heat. in fact, this carefully maintained ecosystem often contributes to more robust plants after the burn.
we came upon the remains. we hadn’t been on the loop in days and were surprised to see the blackened earth, stalks of char. when the snow fell, it became a landscape – seemingly – of black and white. yet the squirrels ran rampant and we couldn’t feel any stress from the underbrush – like when there is an unexpected fire and the land is scorched.
i knelt down in front of the charred cattails and started to photograph them.
and suddenly there were tears in my eyes. i could feel the fire and the scorched-ness, the cooling snow blanketing it all, the energy still there – underground. i could feel the tenacity of these stalks and twigs, having survived the storm of the planned fire, ready for rejuvenation, resurgence. scrappy and resilient, potent, sturdy – the light past the dark. the recovery post-fire, post-exploration, a renewal. i could feel their passage through it.
i held hands with the cattails as i knelt on the snowy ground. braced, the taproot within – infinite – held fast, reassured me.
and with them i peered into the dark and saw that the light was right there, just beyond the charred edges.
they chopped down, chainsawed, mulched, chemicalized, burned. they decimated the whole forest to eliminate the invasives. and – in the way of oncological medicine, of environmental eradication programs, of corporate and organizational ousting – the good cells may somehow survive, burned edges and all.
to be a tree with burn marks is to be human. one cannot traipse through this life without them. we all carry with us whatever balm has helped us get through the fires. we lean on the surety that spring will come, eventually.
as we hike the trail, we know that it is not one hundred percent that only the good will keep on. it is not a certainty. instead, it is a risk, a gamble, that there may be cells that escape treatment, there may be invasives that escape annihilation, there may be people-in-power-with-ill-intent who either escape the pointed fingers or are the ones corruptly pointing them.
and in those cases, the worry is that those cells will reproduce, those invasives will take over and choke out the organic, those people will destroy the place. a ravaging burn. devastation. and the good cells, the good plants, the good people will be left to fend for themselves, to remain upright – stalwart – to grow despite the odds.
it is good friday for those who are keeping a religious calendar. a day of destruction following betrayal and many burned edges. as this sacred story goes, three days later there is a resurrection. and the targeted jesus rises.
as we hike the trail, we notice the green shoots growing out of the ground, their top leaves still blackened. we marvel at the tenacity of these plants as they garnered energy best-as-they-could, regardless of the burn. the good xylem and phloem somehow survived.
there are naturalists who are watching closely, tending to the native plants best as they can. there are doctors and nurses and researchers and clinical trial experts who are watching closely, tending to patients and health and life best as they can. there are, therefore, it would seem, allies who are dedicated to the truth, to transparency, to the best parts of an organization who are watching closely, tending to the burns of the sacrificed.
“i want to know if you will stand in the centre of the fire with me and not shrink back.“ (oriah mountain dreamer)
shrinking back will allow the devastation. standing in the fire – the center of the fire – will allow the resurrection.
*****
“and you were there in all of my suff’ring.
you were there in doubt, and in fear;
i’m waiting on the dawn to reappear...” (you were on the cross – m.mayer, k.butler, a.assad)
reverse threading 