breck is strong, its trunk is solid, it’s rooted and feels grounded as it grows not only taller, but seems to have more and more branches filled with more and more beautiful aspen leaves.
this is the year. breck is a tree.
in the last years of saplinghood, our tiny aspen has had more than its share of challenges. from its beginnings in a pot we carried from city market in breckenridge to its ability to withstand the seasons in a big clay pot on our deck to being planted in a dark corner feathery fern garden where it suffocatingly couldn’t fully see the sun to transplanting to a different garden out back, the curving of its trunk as the west winds buffeted its more fragile spirit, its fight to resiliently stand tall, its skinny jack-in-the-beanstalk growth last year, odd leafing and an infestation of aphids, ants and wasps. and now, there it is – right there, out back – proudly standing tall, loved through it all. rooted, grounded, healthy.
i would draw the parallel between me and breck and our last few years were it not to be that i’d like to linger more in now, look more toward next. the challenges have been plentiful, the sun minimal, the wind battering, the growth sporadic.
but i would also draw the parallel between me and breck – once you get some real roots under you, once you transplant out of the dark corner garden, once you feel the sun and can breathe in fresh air, once you fight to stay centered, once you steadfastly feel grounded in who you are, once you resiliently stand tall growing and leafing, loved through it all, you are far more likely to be a tree.
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.
and today – despite the dirt and the dried stems, vestiges of life-gone-past – despite the cold and the snow and the ice and the rain and all the elements that have torn into this plant and the critters that have refuged under its branches – despite the sun and the drought and no added nutrients and almost no attention whatsoever – small clusters of brassica-like buds have sprouted out of the ground.
they have persevered, they have sought rebirth, they have wiped away their tears of disappearance and their underground fallow and they have risen up, one tiny millimeter at a time, unnoticed until now, shoots of green in all the brown.
they have not been considered marvelous. they are not rare. they are not exquisite blooms, fragile petals, filmy tendrils connecting them to their lifesource. instead, they are curled cabbages, tightly wound and unwinding.
they are a little bit haughty at the spring and its sweet-time-taking. they are persistent, resilience at their core, hardy, paying no mind to the rules of march or april or, really, any season. they wait for no one to move the leaves and debris of winter. they are independent.
this new year of growth, this new season of their sedum-lives is pushing out of the good earth – despite all odds. they keep on keeping on, mustering up next and next, pushing aside all doubt, surely panting in their phoenix.
the threads are stretching, stretching…but not ripping.
barney stretches and yawns, still a piano, always a piano. his soul – tenacious and flexible and resilient – centering back to itself, despite weather, despite weathering. it’s late day and the shadows are long. there are small mounds of birdseed, assorted fallen leaves, bits of white at the leading edge of the keyboard. no matter. his aging exterior belies the zeal inside of him, the sorting of memories being played, sustain pedal lifting notes into the air and holding them there. barney has come to knowing that all the notes are still there – stretched across the atmosphere, lingering. he is not fearful of this process in the sun and the rain, snow and blustering winds.
“if you let your fears control your actions, then you are not going 100 mph through it, enjoying it.” (sue aikens)
barney does little these days. he is home for wildlife, the birds, the chippies, the squirrels – they know him well. but he is still going 100 mph through it, whirling and dancing in his beautiful body in our backyard. one day he will look even less like an upright.
but the chickadees and house finches, the cardinals and robins will glance over at him and think, “there’s that sweet piano.” for they, too, will still recognize him.
there is a magazine i look at most every day. it is a simple-magazine publication and features container gardens of all sorts. each time i page through it i see something new, get ideas, wonder about unique re-purposing, changing old typewriters or baskets into succulent planters or large-animal feed scoops or galvanized tubs into fence pots. the photography shows beautiful plants in all seasons of growth and it makes creative juju pick up pace.
we walked slowly through the daniel stowe botanical garden with our daughter and her boyfriend, enjoying every second. the greenhouse was steamy and we got misted as we walked. gorgeous orchids punctuated the tropical plants. we stopped to read information, take pictures, admire textures and the colors that looked like dr seuss had taken crayons to everything.
the monstera deliciosa (or aptly-named swiss cheese plant) captured our attention. nature has a way of making sure that rainwater and dew are properly retained yet the leaves are not perpetuating algae or molds, fungus or disease. amazing. instead, waxy fronds or holey swiss-cheesed leaves let the droplets roll off, keeping them open to sunlight. each plant has its own system for balance, all depending on its ever-changing circumstances.
the day at the garden was over too soon; visiting is like that. there were only a few days and it’s hard to fit months and months of not-seeing into bits and pieces of 72 hours.
i now know why my sweet momma always had lists when i called or visited with her. there were things she wanted to know, needed to know, that she didn’t want to forget to ask. there were tiny and big questions about my daily life she wondered about – the extraordinary and the mundane, my feelings about things happening in the world, curiosities she had about my comings and goings and adventures and challenges and transitions. she just simply wished to hear my stories, have a window into my life. without being too invasive, without crossing the ever-changing-invisible-tightrope-line, she wanted to share in it, be a part of it. i get it.
kc, my bonsai gardenia plant, is difficult, “one of the most loved and challenging plants”. i never know if i am watering her enough or too much, if her brown-edged leaves are due to too much attention or too little attention. she has not had a bloom, though she did have two hopeful buds. she is not easy, but she is beautiful and particular and i am determined. charlie, my heart-leaf philodendron, the other plant that was also a lovely gift from my beloved daughter, is easy. she grows no matter what. she is healthy and thriving. she is green and lush and i can practically see her smiling. charlie is the opposite of kc. treasured plants on our garden table in ever-changing light and seasons as they grow, so much like the diversity of real living, i talk to them every day; i appreciate and adore them. they are lessons.
and it occurs to me that these two beautiful plants, both on the table in our sunroom, are – indeed – the spectrum definition of motherhood, the nature of every single cherished relationship, the easy-hard, the fragile-resilient, the holding-on-letting-go, bursting blooms and foliage or the missing of blooms, the learnings, the balance of unconditional love. perhaps a good addition would be this happy swiss cheese plant, a reminder to let it all roll off and keep on keeping on.
it was the rip in the petal that attracted me. this stunning white bloom in the woods, surrounded by underbrush, green leaves and many seemingly-perfect flowers, this was the one that stood out.
kintsugi is a japanese art. it is the practice of putting broken pottery pieces back together again with gold. it is metaphoric self-care. it is the celebration of that which is difficult making you stronger. it is the holding most gently and most admiringly that which is not perfect. it is creating something more beautiful, more unique and more resilient from something broken.
this bloom in the woods needs no gold. its purity and absolute allure are natural. it does not suffer illusions of self-conscious expectations nor does it pine over flaws nor does it wallow in the not-good-enoughs. it simply and silently leans toward the sun in all its glory.
and it wins my vote as the most-beautiful, dazzling the forest floor, reminding me, once again, to have gratitude for all the imperfections that make me me.
reverse threading 