Shrub

This northern white cedar (Thuja occidentalis) has scale-like leaves that emerge from inside the previous leaf; one leaf erupting right out of the next, no discernible stem. Underneath the surface, a living tissue connects leaf to leaf and, layer after layer, it eventually builds wood. You can see the effect of the process here. An unfolding has occurred. Rumor has it that this species of tree was the first North American tree species to cross the Atlantic to Europe, to Paris to be precise, in 1536; un arbre à feuilles persistantes des colonies. This one hand-picked and planted on this fine corner of Earth finds itself too far to the south, out of its ordinary range of temperatures and light, but it presses on. They are capable of living four centuries, although I must confess my doubts to the ability of this one to do so - not where it is, not with so many forces lined up against it. The resinous tissues is highly acidic, filled with citric acid, vitamin C, a fact that saved many a sailor and malnourished colonist from scurvey. Given the latin title Arborvitae, tree of life, for its miraculous qualities. This one bears the weight of snow in winter and suffers scalding sun for half the day in summer; but persistently and ever so slowly it presses itself out into the world changing the very nature of life.

It is only a half turn from this delightful plant to the horrifying scenes of bloodthirsty revenge. We murder and call it justice, then we taunt the world by hanging the dead corpse from every television, newspaper, and web page to be found. The self-assured Secretary used the word "medieval" as he bragged about his "hunt and kill" (as if 500 pound bombs have anything to do with hunting) and in those squinting lying manipulating eyes of his I see he knew he meant himself. He has done the math, though, we cannot catch him before his earthly time is up. Hard to picture, despicable. And the shame piles up, leaf emerging from leaf, solidifying into wood, until we have built a structure out of our very failings. Despair.

Morphology

One could call it genius. This understory oak shrub (is it black or scarlet? Quercus unsertanus) whose leaf profile is lost to the plant's own need to capture as much sunlight as is oakenly possible. A wide net, they say. This morphological tendency is most pronounced in the oak. It seemingly goes against reason, does it not? If there is less of something to have, most organisms respond by shrinking their needs, whether by force or by choice. This oak here across the right-of-way, nestled in the little patch of untrammeled ground between the road surface and the neighbors' yard, has decided it won't abide by those principles. As if principles alone ruled the world, it seems to me to say. If so, no doubt, this oak would have long ago died. But principles, it seems, are difficult to stick to something so lively as the wild. Principles of conservation are vital in a state of scarcity. But sunlight is abundant beyond imagination, even in the understory. Given the freedom, life expresses life. Circumstances change and life changes with them, somehow. This is not to justify unwarranted destruction or intentional rampage. It is to recenter the critique.

Stories of continued carnage lead the headlines every day. Worse than Vietnam in it that it is now today this minute. And worse in that it has somehow muted what used to be a well-developed sense of decency. May we be like oaks in the understory, our indistinguishable leaves powering a healthy set of roots, awaiting the toppling of the dying maple overhead. These days will end. We can be sure.

Context

This redcurrant sprout (Ribes rubrum) stands out amongst the other species of plant life populating the strip of land across the right of way. There are maples sprouting here, too, but despite its similar appearance, this redcurrent sprout is not one. The lobes are too rounded. It is distinguishable from the flowering weeds (forgive the term) by its more complex leaf structure; it has sprouted a leaf that reveals that its plant will produce wood, something in its glossy heartiness, as compared to the more soft and fragile hairy leaves all around it. Redcurrants are a shrubby plant that have adapted across the temperate zone in the northern hemisphere, but not the southern. Mi esposa no los conoce antes estas viviendo aca, por ejemplo. They produce a a bitter fruit full of acerbic acid and they are delicious in a cold chicken salad, as I learned. These sprouts prove the tenacity of life, the miracle of the living context. Last July I was charged with assembling a meal entirely out of locally grown and raised food; it had to have come from less than 50 miles. I needed flavor for my salad and something to baste the chicken when I barbequed. Redcurrants, growing in clumps in the backyard of a friend in the next town, gave me the help I needed. I picked a bucketful and brought them home and pressed most of them through a wire mesh, leaving behind a pile of skins and seeds. I deposited the so-called waste material in amongst the grasses here, and this spring, without hesitation, they have taken root, sprouted, carried my own energy and life force back into the history of this little strip of land across the right-of-way. There are raspberries (Rubus idaeus) growing further along the right-of-way that, no doubt I now realize, have a similar history. Our lives are all connected in our landscapes, human hands and thoughts and natural growth and expressions. Nothing escapes context.

Perhaps among all other failures of the present travesty of politics is this last little nugget. The pre-modernist notion that one people or state or ruler or class can somehow transcend context, ignore discussion, and fail to behave with diplomacy should have died with Napoleon. Yet here we wallow, hoping for the warming daylight of a political spring to sprout new seeds from the waste of last year's dinner party.

On April 17, 2006 I predicted a tapestry of maple, grape and choke cherry would block the view of my neighbors' house, and them, me and mine. Alas, the predicted future has arrived. Am I now a fortune teller? How did I possibly see the future so clearly? And, before snickering too much at what sound like facetious questions, ponder this: Can these 'common sense' predictions help us to see something about the essence of chaos and order, something about where each of them reside?