The world has gone crazy and my head is so full of the loud stimulus
that I can’t put all the pieces together to form any of the usual speculations
and hypotheses. After spring-like winter, the natural world here in the
Southern Appalachians bursts out like never before. Accelerated and profuse, it
is nature on steroids.
The starlings that nest each year in the eaves of our little
guest house are back this year with a vengeance, but where is the elegant black
snake that usually keeps their population in check? Did the constant freezing
and thawing disturb his hibernation such that he perished over the non-existent
winter? The starlings now brazenly command the space. The space between each
rafter stuffed to capacity with demanding hatchlings. Bird shit decorates the
walls and windows, an art nouveau that escapes my capacity for appreciation. I
would sell my soul for a short visit from a hungry reptile.
The starlings are joined in their fecund ecstasy by ticks,
fleas, fire ants and poison ivy. Without a significant deep freeze this year to
kill them back. The furry members of the family scratch and stare helplessly
with glazed expressions. Frontline, Advantage and the other poisons only kill
the bugs once they have bitten, and for every one dead, another ten await
outdoors for the newly opened niche.
The footpaths through the woods that provide the avenues for
nightly walks are now carpeted in three-leaved green, my arms and legs with the
itchy, oozing telltale signature of my floral nemesis. The unnatural world now beacons me to abandon
venues of trees and moss for the safer pavements of anthropocentric constructions.
The unmaking feeds upon itself.
The black snake is not the only character missing from this
unnatural landscape. I never thought I would miss them, but where are the
dandelions? My grandfather used to curse their exotic nuisance as he carefully
removed each offender from his well-tended lawn. I, on the other hand, have
always adopted a laissez-faire attitude towards the mowed spaces surrounding my
house. My lassitude welcomes all. Even the lowly dandelion provides a happy
splash of color and fresh greens for soups, stews and salads. How unnatural
must the world be when even the unnatural cannot flourish in it?
Meanwhile, political discourse is monopolized by talks of
economic growth, the devising of new strategies that will allow the plutocrats to
extract even more self-aggrandizement from a strangled earth. Promises of drops
of prosperity for the rest of the living biosphere flow down the edifice like
starling shit.
Is there any hope to be gleaned from the signals of the
natural world? The Canada geese fly back and forth over our house to the ponds
each day, perhaps our old friend Lulu, who we raised from an egg a few years
ago, is among them. We hope. Deep in the poison ivy-laden woods, a brown
thrasher flies up into the trees, calling my attention. Her strategy, I know,
is to distract me from the small chick in a fragile nest in a tangle of
brambles on the ground. I glance to see the well-camouflaged hatchling and then
pass on, allowing the mother to conclude that her ruse was a success. Perhaps
the poison ivy will protect the vulnerable baby bird on the forest floor. I
hope.
I am reading Peter Matthiessen’s “Snow Leopard.” As my heart
sings requiems for black snakes and dandelions, I am at least comforted by
Matthiessen’s reminder of the basic Buddhist wisdom – Everything is Right Here Now. I hope.
