I was looking forward to a hot drink after this. But when I go inside the hot drink machine is unplugged. That’s ok. Mom and dad are in the desert for a while.
Outside again, this time with the winter gloves, as it’s not just leaves I’m raking but also small pieces of ice hiding in the spaces between. A part of me knows it’s better for the ecosystem to leave the leaves.
And I know the truth is there are too many in the main part of the yard. And the new dog hasn’t learned how to sh*t in the designated dog sh’t area yet. And there are small children running around these days. And leaves plus dog sh*t plus small children is the sort of thing you put in big effort to avoid.
I love the sound of the leaves moving along the ground.. But they are heavier now than they were last week. Wet. Already decomposing. They have gotten denser, more earth and less air. And I think there is medicine in the way the rake vibrates my arms and shoulders as it rolls over the bumps and knobs of the earth. But it is tiring and I wish I hadn’t already worked out this morning.
I start to worry about mold exposure. Always with the mold exposure drama. That fades quickly. I keep trying to force this to be a “nature experience” but mostly it feels like work. And my cheeks and nose are cold, even though my core is hot from all the movement. I’m sure I’ll have sore shoulders tomorrow.
I was recently taught how to see the energy of trees. And since then I have been exploring that often. There is one hike that I do frequently with my daughter that finishes looking out over the kind of valley that clearly holds a sacred story. Waterfall, rugged mountain peaks, creeks. The trees there, mostly a collection of coniferous trees, with little pockets of Aspen trees, pulsate when you look at their energy.
Those trees pulse with a collective aliveness. They have a unison to their pulse. They seem to be a whole, a forest. And yet if you zoom in, each tree has its own world as well. Symphonic.
Two weeks ago, I was standing overlooking the town where I live. I saw that the trees in town do not pulse in a unified way. Maybe I am projecting my own experience of living in this human world of isolation and separation from the land, but even the trees in town seem to be individuated. They don’t have that same sense of belonging and unison that the forest trees have.
Many of them were planted by humans or modified by humans. Many of them moved from one place to another. Some of them are original. And yet, I didn’t get the sense that their way of pulsing was bad or wrong. It was more like an orchestra warming up, whereas the forest trees seem to be already deep in their music.
I wonder if the hustle and bustle of humans was in that pulse as well. Perhaps. And likely. I wonder if trees are able to find belonging wherever they are planted. Or if they too struggle to find their place in new land with random and sometimes foreign neighbors.
I keep raking.
I love the Aspen trees. They feel like home to me. My parents have several Aspen trees that were planted nearly 40 years ago. As I think about them, I feel like tearing up with love. They have been consistently there. As the yard changes around them, as the family dynamics shift, as the people come and go. The trees are there.
Holding the peace signs and the prayer flags for us. In the spring they drop their seeds all over the yard and the fluffy bundles leave purple stains on the deck. They are some of the last trees to grow leaves in the spring and to change in the fall.
And when they drop their leaves, I know, oh damn, here comes winter. I can feel them get still. Get quiet. And I’m here today scurrying around raking up their leaves so that none of the grandkids step in dog sh’t.
And I wonder who is raking up the leaves in the forest. Maybe this is my way of being true to my knowing that humans are stewards of the land. Pieces of walking earth with custodial skills. Born to caretake. Born to see. And I’m doing my part in the little world I inhabit to steward this yard. And to somehow honor these trees.
That hold that prayer flags and the peace signs. That have grown with me and my sisters and our dogs and our kids and our parents. They have provided a sanctuary, an anchor and sanity for me over the years.
When I ask them, they say, leave a few leaves. So I do.