On what we do now
I'm planting a meadow in my front yard
I don’t want to write about the election. I don’t want to think about it either. But it’s so much in my body that it’s proving to be something that isn’t easily shaken off.
It’s early Sunday morning and my spouse Janyce and I are out standing on the front lawn, our dog crouching in the leaves at the end of her long leash. I stand back from the two of them, balancing on soggy grass in slip-on sandals, a knit cap on my head, just watching.
“Wow, it’s still so warm outside,” I say out loud while looking up at the Kousa tree. Its knuckles and bare branches are creating a tinker toy-like webbed silhouette against the pre-dawn sky. I study the tree for signs of an abandoned hummingbird nest in those joints. In the summer, the tiny birds zip by us and accelerate like miniature drones into the lushness of our tree. Every so often one will rest on a bare branch at the very top, above the leaf line, and wait for when it’s safe to buzz back again to the feeder among the perennials.
“Let’s go Swirls,” I say, as the three of us crunch and shuffle through dried oak leaves, our dog pulling on the leash, focused on getting back to her breakfast and into the orange glow of our kitchen. We’re trying something different this year. I canceled the lawn cleanup service, opting instead to push some of the heavy leaf drifts off to the sides of the yard and let the rest remain exactly where they are —for the insects, and the toads, and the bumblebees overwintering in our yard. If it kills the turf grass, that’s okay with us, because we have other plans.
A few nights ago, at the end of the workday, we grabbed a computer and propped it up on the ottoman to watch a Zoom presentation on how a young couple transformed their suburban lawn into a wildflower meadow. I still don’t know how they did it exactly, it wasn’t the best presentation. But it seemed to me to involve manual labor with a lawn mower, a rented thatcher and a lot of patience. I have little skills for all of those things right now. Still, the end result was inspirational and made me yearn to try a smaller, simpler version of this same thing even as I worry that it may be a bit of a mess for a while.
Is a year a long time? By year two it was already blooming, and it had the makings of a visible plan to its amorphous shapes and mowed paths. The couple placed a sign out for the neighbors to let them know it was intentional, they plopped Adirondack chairs into the riot of lanky native plant growth asking for a paradigm shift in themselves and anyone who passed by their yard. They were counting on mother nature to speak for herself.
I don’t want to write about the election. I don’t want to think about it either. But it’s so much in my body that it’s proving to be something that isn’t easily shaken off. I have friends seriously considering Canadian citizenship, I have other friends sending me news articles daily, I have friends who are gearing up for activism. I’m sure I also have silent friends, too, who don’t feel as sad and anxious as I do. I mean it was half of the country who wanted this change. And change is most certainly coming.
Now I’m back in bed with my mug of coffee and the curtains open to the day. I didn’t notice it brighten. Two pink clouds visible through the pines just moments ago have dissolved into the pale blue of the morning sky. Janyce is gingerly climbing back onto the bed to join me with a notebook and a pen, balancing her cup, wedging herself between me and our dog who is sound asleep already and breathing heavily. We’re going to start making the Thanksgiving day grocery list now. We’re going to shop for table decorations, set the table days early, clean the house. We’re going to have a beautiful holiday and move forward, despite the pit in the bottom of my stomach that just won’t go away.