To Witness and to Act

Once there were brook trout in the streams in the mountains. You could see them standing in the amber current where the white edges of their fins wimpled softly in the flow. They smelled of moss in your hand. Polished and muscular and torsional. On their backs were vermiculate patterns that were maps of the world in its becoming. Maps and mazes. Of a thing which could not be put back. Not be made right again. In the deep glens where they lived all things were older than man and they hummed of mystery.      

 C. McCarthy, The Road

                                                                                                                                                                                                           

I walk through the woods in the early morning hours. The forest in which I wander is a small piece of paradise, no more than three acres in size, located in a wealthy residential neighbourhood up the slope from where I live. A narrow path circumnavigates the park. I follow it to my meditation spot. The trail is used by dog walkers and hikers and those just looking for some quiet. But in the silence of the breaking day, I am alone.

In my solitude, I bear witness.

I bear witness to the greens of the ferns, shiny and clean from the melting snow and to the buds so young, so achingly close to opening, so new in their beginning. I bear witness to the cycle of life. 

I bear witness to the drape of cedar fronds and the softness of fir needles, and to the bark that clothes each tree, a language unto its own, rich and varied. I bear witness to the sound of the creek, running strong with the spring melt over rocks, slippery with moss and glistening with wet, and the dew held in suspension from the hemlock, heavy in weight from a multitude of cones.

  

I bear witness to the squirrel springing from branch to trunk and over to another, and the birds, as if newly awakened, singing in symphonic agreement.

And I bear witness to the silent communication that only a forest can evoke.

This once strong forest, reduced to a small tract of land, also holds signs of our humanness. There is the Tim Horton's cup thrown casually to the side of the trail and the cigarette butts littering the space beneath a sheltering tree. Up ahead, almost hidden behind a log, are several garbage bags laid open by curious predators of the night—empty cans, plastic and tissue, the detritus of modern-day living.

I bear witness to our lack of consciousness.

  

I pick up the waste. How can I not? It is mine. Not literally, of course. I don’t throw my garbage into the trees but as I am human it is mine to own. And I bear witness.

Cormac McCarthy’s quote, printed above, is important in this context. At first glance it seems to speak to complete and irreversible devastation. But like the book from which it derives, the words, the last in the novel, are infused with hope. We can change things. We are not necessarily headed for utter devastation—we are not doomed.  But to change this current trajectory of self-destructive behaviour, we must seek out the deep glens, listen to the hum of mystery and humble ourselves to that which is older than man.

We are nothing without the earth and yet we do daily violence to it. Whether it’s the simple act of littering or the more complex ones of using throwaway food wrap, driving a car or spraying pesticides: our actions matter; our deeds recorded.

To change this course, to transform this path of self-destruction—and truly, that is what it comes down to: the end of life as we know it—we must return to the earth from which we came. We must reconnect to that which sustains and nurtures us; what gives us shelter and context to our lives. We must return and we must respect.

First we must bear witness. Then we must act.

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Coming Home

The Gift of Snow and Ice

The snow will be leaving us shortly. Rain is expected tomorrow and for the next few months, I suppose. And, to be honest, I am not overly sorry to hear that. This is Vancouver, after all, the Teflon city in regards to the white stuff. That said, this last week of accumulated snow and ice has gifted me in the most unexpected way. With roads slippery and slushy, and the risk of ICBC deductables looming over my head, I ditched the car.

I didn't always drive. Two years ago, I was car-less and had been for almost 20 years. Then my father broke his hip and driving, at least for him, was no longer possible; I inherited his vehicle. There were benefits to this, of course—I could visit him more often and out-of-reach places were no longer a nightmare in bus transfers—but at first I resisted. 

Driving was the antithesis to my environmental stance, it was the gateway to laziness, and it was expensive. How could I justify it? I continued, therefore, to walk to work and bus into town, only using the car when bus travel just didn’t make sense. But the “efficiency of time” excuse soon crept in, followed by the “just for today ‘cause I’m tired” justification and finally the “damn it I want to drive” rationalization forgo the subtleties and broke down the door. The keys were in my hand and I became a driving fiend. It took less than half a year. And then the snow came.

I don’t have snow tires and I have no winter driving skills. Necessity made me park the car. And I realized

all the joys I could have missed out on if I had purchased winter tires and kept on driving.

Over the last week I have revisited the delights of a nighttime walk along the seawall, making my own foot prints in the snow and experiencing the quiet melting of a snowflake on my lip. I’ve been serenaded by the call of birds as they have gathered for the evening and debriefed the day’s events. I've stood under trees and experienced their magical stillness and the solitude of a street light limning the branches laden with snow. I've found  buds teased into opening from the breath of spring we had but a week ago and let my ears drink in the gentle lap of water as the tide played tag with the shore.

Its easy to get caught up in the I-got-to-get-home urgency that strikes us when the work day is over, and easy to forget that the earth is not a just a tool to get us from one place to another. Important and vital stories are waiting to be told by nature and all that springs from her—to be breathed into our souls, infused into our bone.

I give thanks to the snow and ice for this timely reminder and for bringing that message back home to my heart.

If you like this blog, please "like" my FaceBook page and get notices on your timeline when a new article is posted. 

Also check out my newest blog, the Modern-Day Renaissance Woman where you will find excerpts my new book, Notes from the Bottom of the Box: The Search for Identity by a Modern-Day Renaissance Woman.

The Dance

Towering above me

the trees sway, their grace

an ancient power

moving within. I breathe in their gift;

the journey begins.

It’s not easy,

this path within.

I have traversed it many times only

to end up lost in the darkness—

retracing my steps

from the half eaten breadcrumbs

I conveniently thought to lay. I didn’t trust.

It is hard to trust when fear binds the way

but neither is it easy to move on. It is a dance

of uncertainty.

The trees pay no mind,

Just continue their sway,

their whisper a truth: fear

is but a myth.

I have walked with fear all my life:

of the dark, of authority;

of displeasing others. Mostly,

I have been fearful of not being enough—

of failing, and of others bearing witness

to who I thought I was.

I look up at the swaying boughs

as their whispers gains strength.

Impossible not to hear now,

have they always been that loud?

I ponder my fears and

the losses they promise: of control,

of power, of identity—

a tightening of the heart, a

squeezing out of light and joy.  A fear

of love.

A small bird darts past 
into the safe spaces beneath the trees, a raven calls
in the distance and the wind, always the wind, 

encourages me to dance to the rhythm

that calls itself fear.

I dance to the trees, to the earth, the sky and the waters.

I dance to the authority I feared and the power I lost.

I dance to the birds and the fern, the squirrels and the moss.

I dance to my jealousies and resentments and unfound judgments.

I dance to all the people I have hurt and to those that have hurt me.

I dance to light and joy. I dance to the darkness and fear. I dance. I dance.

I dance to love.



If you like this blog, please "like" my FaceBook page and get notices on your timeline when a new article is posted. 

Also check out my newest blog, the Modern-Day Renaissance Woman where you will find excerpts my new book, Notes from the Bottom of the Box: The Search for Identity by a Modern-Day Renaissance Woman.