MAY 13, 2023 – Nature. We view it romantically, spiritually, philosophically, scientifically, even religiously. But we also have a long history of approaching it contemptuously, as a nuisance, an obstacle, an enemy, and of course, a giant reservoir of riches to be exploited, pretty much at any cost, so long as a handsome profit can be assured—often with the profiteers bearing few to none of the total, long-term costs. And we elect leaders who say of the greatest living things on planet earth—the giant redwoods—“If you’ve seen one, you’ve seen ’em all.”
Today I contemplated my own schizophrenic relationship with nature. When I behold the natural world in its glory, crowned by the sun and clothed in gold-threaded garments, I bow to its beauty. I’m not moved to disturb it in the least. I accept its “imperfections”—a dead limb blocking my view; a crow drowning out a bluebird—as reflections of my own imperfect understanding of how nature works. At other times, however, I fight with nature: spraying for ticks, for example, and when the buggers penetrate the magic shield of chemicals so toxic the label warns against improper disposal, I swear at the disease-bearing insects, pluck them from my skin and, depending on my whereabouts, either flick them downwind as far as I can or flush them into the septic system as I curse robustly, “Good riddance, you @#!%& tick!”
But I experience more indirect clashes with nature, such as the annual, spring clean-up of the yard around the Red Cabin. The wild woods are close in every direction except the lake side, and even there, dozens of trees frame—or block, depending on your perspective—our view. Today, Beth raked her garden beds, and I raked like a maniac on the east side of the porch and around the back deck, clawing frenetically at fallen twigs, pine cones and last year’s leaves. I didn’t want to see this unwanted detritus as an essential part of the cycle of growth and decay essential to replenishment of the soil, which, in turn, sustains all life on terra firma. Our sensibilities aren’t dictated by science, however, but by the cultural norms of our civilization: a yard, especially in the immediate vicinity of one’s dwelling, should be “presentable,” despite the overwhelming rusticity of the abode’s secluded location. When I questioned myself from a scientific perspective, the absurdity of my efforts was undeniable. I rationalized my actions by loading up the “spring debris” onto a large sheet of plastic and dragging it a few yards to supplement the “growth-decay” cycle just beyond the yard.
Today’s interaction with nature, however, was not wholly adversarial. A 12-foot white pine volunteer in one of the back gardens suffered acutely from last winter’s blizzards. It leaned painfully over the path that leads from the back of the cabin to the edge of the circular terminus of our drive. The wounded tree had no assurance that time and resilience would straighten its spine. My heart ached for this tree. Before last winter, this tree had had all the promise of a smart, kind, comely, capable princess. The world was at her glass-slippered feet. Now the forlorn being, her limbs twisted and raiment torn, suffered an acute distortion of her back. It would’ve snapped had a nearby wild spruce, less snow-burdened than the pine, not caught her in his saving arms. (Cont.)
Subscribe to this blog and receive notifications of new posts by email.
© 2023 by Eric Nilsson
