Earth: an erasure poem
At the very last minute, I flubbed the “the” in this poem (and “catch” and “cross” could also be more legible) but I think you get the idea. Enjoy!
On Remembering
I’m dropping in today to write a little update from our 100ft-wide patch of nature and beyond. Since I last wrote about this small plot of woods, three new species have been spotted - a fox jumping around the thickets, bats circling, hunting in the light of a full moon, and deer munching on meristem growth in broad daylight.
We have witnessed rabbits, squirrels, a groundhog, an opossum, a fox, bats, deer, and birds aplenty living in and utilizing this space. Many of the trees in this patch are Black Walnut, an allelopathic tree that secretes toxins into the environment to out-compete other trees and gobble up all the light. Black Walnuts tend to decrease diversity and I used to think of them as kind of a boring “white bread” tree whose presence make the surroundings a little less interesting. So, I have been shocked to see the kind of wildlife that has been frequenting the area and the variety of plants that have been popping up to prove me wrong.
I have to admit that when I first moved here I was constantly comparing this view to the pristine and ancient forests of Oregon. This area looked like a dumping grounds by comparison. It is pretty young ecologically. Side by side with an Oregon forest, the Maryland forest (at least the forest close to me) looks like a bunch of sticks in the ground.
I am really into trees. I wrap up a lot of my happiness in them. When people used to ask me why I moved to Oregon, I usually told them that I needed a change, which was true. But, a big part of the reason I moved there was for the trees. Conifers make me happy, the mountains fill me with life.
Oregon is an incredibly beautiful place and its beauty is so easy. You don’t have to look hard to find it. I used to drive around the streets of Portland and feel overwhelmed with happiness and gratitude for getting the chance to live there. Saying goodbye to the safety and serenity of that place tore me to pieces. But, I knew that eventually (if I tried hard enough) I would be able to take the freedom of Oregon with me anywhere I went.
Most of the time I spent on this balcony in those early days of moving back, I would stare off into the distance at the trio of conifer trees that reminded me of Oregon and pretend I was somewhere else. I gazed out over the horizon, past what existed right in front of me. I would not see it. I could not see it. I did not pick up the trash. I tried to remember and hold on to that freedom. But, I felt lost.
These past couple months I have been refocusing, trying to stay present here, really being exactly where I am. As it turns out, thanks to a global pandemic, I have to. In this time of sinking deeper into this presence of place, I have reinvigorated my love of foraging and have been visiting the forest for solace and comfort.
I miss Oregon less as I learn to love the nature here even more. On a walk yesterday to a nearby patch of woods, I found a mighty oak in the midst of a tulip poplar forest. The trunk of this oak was so big that I couldn’t wrap both arms around even half of the diameter. I thought to myself, “bah!” at the idea of a Maryland forest being a bunch of twigs.
On one side, the oak tree was rotting, a series of holes the size of my hand pecked or torn into it, at least four of them, one after another stretching up toward the canopy. Yet the crown of the tree was still so full and luscious. I saw those soft greens speckled across the bright blue sky and thought to myself: summer colors and my heart was full.
The woods in Maryland are resilient, the trees are fighters. They shine in their own special way that needs no comparison. This is something I forgot. Something I am remembering. Where I live, in the suburban outskirts of the city, the wildlife are crammed into small spaces, yet still find ways to survive and to thrive.
I am still learning to relax into the presence of this place. The Oregon forest taught me lessons that I choose to carry with me everywhere I go. Their safety and comfort has allowed me to remember and to view the place where I was born through a new lens. And in this way, I am grateful to have had Oregon and also to have lost it.
The Coming Shift?
There is a patch of woods behind the apartments where I live, not even 100-foot wide. I can see clear across the patch on a winter’s day, down to a busy suburban road and a driveway that loops round a community pool. Black walnut trees comprise a decent stretch of the woods. There are a few cherry tree stragglers. Rosa multiflora carpets the understory, generally keeping human feet out. Garlic mustard and dandelions began sprouting along the edges this spring, a welcome sign to me of available food.
This patch of woods, like many in urban and suburban Maryland, has been a dumping grounds for humans for decades. One day, fed up and overwhelmed with anxiety in early-pandemic times, I went out to fill what I could of an industrial trash bag.
The day I decided to tackle the trash was the day after I saw a family of rabbits for the first time hopping about the thickets. My anger got the best of me. Even though I was still nursing a chronic pain flareup, I let my hands meet the earth again in an attempt to do something, be somebody else other than a person who manages an inconvenient disease. I get so fed up with the pain sometimes. More than actually being in pain, I get angry at how it (and fatigue) constantly sideline my life. Even prior to pandemic-living, I have had my share of “zero” days spent inside. You could say, I guess, that I have had some pandemic practice.
Over the years, picking up trash has become somewhat of a prayer for me – it can be an incredibly mindful activity and opportunity for compassion. It also eases my anxiety. It makes me feel useful, which I must admit is one of my most favorite things in life to feel. If I get into an especially good headspace, when I feel myself getting too angry or attached to the stories in my head about the people who made this mess, I can pause and channel that anger into action. I can also silence the attachment I get to retrieving some particular piece of garbage I really want to pick up. The truth is not all pieces of garbage are salvageable. There are pieces too embedded in the soil, too large for my trash bag, bits of plastic (bags mostly) torn up into impossibly small pieces, items too tangled up in the thickets. The perfectionist in me hates to leave them behind. But, in these instances, I often sacrifice quality for quantity.
Among the trash that particular day, I found several decade-old beer cans, contractor waste like spray cans and landscaping trash bags, tiger-print underwear (a thong), blunt wrappers, food wrappers, and dented plastic ball-pit toys in a rainbow of colors that presumably rolled down the hill from some apartment-dwelling child.
In the time since I cleaned up what I could of that small patch of woods, I’ve seen two new animals roaming around in the brush – an opossum and a groundhog. Yesterday, I watched the groundhog get really brave and inch its way up to the edge to gobble up a fresh, bright dandelion flower. I know seeing the two of them is more a testament to the changing season (and the always-home-now situation we have ourselves in) than it is to the absence of trash. But, there is a small part of me that feels extra useful knowing that it made the space a little cleaner for them too.
There is this quote that is circling around the internet right now that says “In the rush to return to normal, use this time to consider which parts of normal are worth rushing back to.”
On one of my walks last week, I was feeling particularly contemplative and philosophical about the trash (but not picking it up). I thought about how many of the familiar brands I see strewn amongst the edges of the forest might no longer be in business if the economy really tanks. Every piece of trash in the woods becomes an artifact and reminder from a forgotten time.
I’ve seen more folks than ever before spending time out in the woods. People are creating a new future in their choices to get back in touch with nature. I witnessed two people come out with garbage bags to that same patch of woods since my own cleanup almost a month ago. I don’t credit myself in the least for this, as I highly doubt people even saw me doing it. As I’ve driven around doing essential errands like grocery shopping, I am seeing more people picking up trash, walking, stopping to smell the flowers. I believe that something may be shifting in the way we collectively regard nature … do you feel it too?
Tough Days and Little Joys
Just a little update (in the spirit of practice) from a walk today and beyond...
Yesterday was a tough day. This past winter, I applied to 5 MFA programs in creative writing. Those who know this already, know how much work and time I put into these applications and how excited I have been for the prospect of these programs. Well, yesterday I got my 4th rejection. I'm expecting the 5th to come any day now. But, maybe there is some semblance of hope still? Who knows really... Anyway, I did a lot of my grieving yesterday in preparation for that 5th decision (my top school). It may seem trivial right now as things are the way they are. But, grief is grief and it will not be told what to do. So, I just went with it and let the sadness take over for a little while.
Today I woke up sad af to still feel sad af but determined to get out for a walk at some point. I'm glad I did make it out. Something that brings me a lot of joy is watching the incremental changes in the season. Also, knowing in these uncertain times that there is food growing everywhere in suburban Maryland is a great comfort. Many of them are "weeds" - talk about a reframing! There was an abundance of chickweed, dandelion, dead nettle, wild garlic, garlic mustard, and speedwell to be spotted today.
On the walk, I also noticed that the magnolias have bloomed and their smell is in full force. Just a few days ago the flowers of this same tree were still tight and torpedoed. This knowledge brought a lightness, it made the days inside feel less monotonous now having proof that nature really is still marching on day by day outside. I think I may also have found a dawn redwood tree planted in someone's yard. I almost jumped back at the bark in excitement when I saw it because it looked SO west coast and nostalgic for an ecosystem I dearly miss - a very exciting find. This tree is another one I can monitor as it begins to regrow (they are one of the few deciduous conifers to they lose their needles each winter). Little joys, little joys. It's important to hold onto them now and always.
I am happy to (seemingly) be crawling out of that awful mini depression. Walks really help. I am cherishing them. And I am cherishing you too if you are reading this <3 Thank you.
I Took a Walk
I took a walk to clear my mind, to stretch my legs. A simple stroll turned into a game of six-feet-between-strangers and then the concept of a walk changed forever. At first, I wasn’t sure how to navigate this new world.
Then, I found myself stepping more on the earth instead of the pavement. My eyes searched the forest for signs of Spring, signs of food and medicine. Two legs carried me past a playground covered in caution tape, led me to a stream. I sat in the eroded valley bed, a bowl, a womb, watching water trickling by. No matter what is happening with us humans, water will still flow downstream.
Taking a path I’ve never taken led me to a local school. I found the grounds of the football stadium dotted with people moving their bodies, far from one another but closer to themselves. Two cars in the parking lot drove with teenagers behind the wheel, practicing for that undetermined time when the DMV will again open. As I rounded the side corner of the school to face the front, I was greeted by a sweetgum tree, spikey balls radiating out onto the earth from a nucleus of twisted roots. There was a nostalgia to this moment, something I remembered from long ago.
I realized that almost no one I saw had their face to a screen, they had orchestrated their presence and time here precisely to be far away from smartphones filled with scary news. There was this glimpse of the 1990s on that walk that flashed before me. But, there was also something else, something wordless, vast and infinite, something I could not yet describe. Something new.