My
grandparents have a farm on a small off shoot of the Gwynne Valley. The Battle
River runs through the property and in the spring when we walk down the hill to
watch the spring ice break-up, I am reminded of the natural cycle of change;
the river was deep and narrow when my mother was a teenager, but now it is wide
and shallow, its water eroding the banks a little more every year. Eventually
it will become so wide that the river will flatten into a lake. I don’t like to
think of the valley under a puddle of water, especially one as muddy and
polluted as the Battle. I should say that we have a farm on a valley; my grandparents have
died, my grandmother first, seven years ago, and then this last spring, my
grandfather followed her.
During
my childhood years I spent a lot of time on the farm. My grandma taught me to
pull weeds and dig potatoes, and how to tell when apples were ready to pick off
the apple trees. I learned how to ski on the hill in front of the house
standing between her knees, holding onto her ski pole across my chest. One wet
day when we were picking mushrooms, the cows chased us down that same hill.
Grandma tossed me over the fence, jumped it, and cleared the barbed wire
without even snagging her jeans. I learned to appreciate the smell of the
breeze on our sheets and towels and to listen for the loud bee buzz of the
hummingbirds. We knew that the felled trees on the valley floor were the work
of the beavers that slid down the banks and swam in the river.
As
I got older and I was allowed to go further from the house on my own, I would
walk to the edge of the valley. After a while, if I was quiet and it was the
right time of day, I would catch sight of the animals that lived in the valley;
porcupines, which always appeared first as a trick of the light (is that dirt
hill moving?), making their way slowly up an indecipherable path, deer grazing
in twos or threes, coyotes, always alone. I remember sitting there in
anticipation, just waiting for something to happen, like I was a part of some
kind of secret, or I could be, as a voyeur of the natural world.
In
my early adult years I lived there with my husband and children. After the kids were
in bed I often walked to that same hill, but for different reasons; now I
wasn’t waiting for life to appear before my eyes, but trying to escape it. The
days seemed very long, alone and miles away from town and other people, raising
two kids under the ages of two inside of a marriage that was broken. I craved
conversation. Every time I sat on that hill, I wanted to be comforted. Comfort
was what I asked for when I sat on the edge of the valley and talked to God.
Instead of feeling better though, I began to see my life more clearly which, as
it turns out, is much more useful.
For
a long time I didn’t understand why sitting in that space gave me so much
clarity, and a clarity that didn’t leave me crying my eyes out and feeling
hopeless. It was like I was able to see myself for the person I was –
diminished and frustrated – from a simply expressed honesty. By being around
insects and plants, by watching the sunset or getting soaked by the dew on the
grass, I was learning about the world outside of myself and my species, and
being in non-human nature was like having a mirror thrust in front of my face;
everything around me was so comfortable in doing and being what it was created
to be that I saw all of the “unnatural” parts to my existence, inconsistencies
in my character and life that showed disease. I came to identify my perch on
the edge of the valley as a sacred space, where I felt the heart of God, and
where something mysterious and unidentifiable was happening between me and the
rest of nature as well.
Over
the past year or so I have been focusing on what it means to rest in God and
learning about what it means to make that rest the seat of my identity. One
particular day I spent time sitting in the tall grass on the hill above the
valley. Tree is a response to
my impressions on that day, which made me consider the Old Testament image of a
tree planted by streams of living water. It is found throughout Jeremiah
specifically and in different places in the Psalms. On the hill that day, as a
part of nature, I realized both my insignificance, one thing among infinite
created things, as well as my uniqueness, one deliberately crafted and deeply
loved. I saw how settled and unquestioning the non-human world was in
living-out its life. In a moment all of my worries about being a good parent
and student, my wondering over the future, my concerns over everything, were
diminished and I found a place of rest.
I
wish that I could say that I am so convinced of my identity that I exist in
that place of rest always, but it’s not true. It’s the change that does it,
that brings me back to that spot of asking my God who I am. The change is a
gift; it reminds me that I have forgotten. I see in my mind a picture of a
Poplar, tall and strong, arms stretching towards the sky, bark pale against the
blue, and I hear a whisper that says, you know who you are. It is said with warmth and affection. I am like
that tree. That tree is full of integrity, does not betray itself or its maker.
It is exactly who it is created to be. This picture, the whisper, the love that
accompanies this impression, reminds me that I do know who I am.
Tree
There is a barrier between
us,
a panel of glass
that removes from me the
pleasure of
the caressing hands
of the wind,
that tangos with the
grasses
and shivers the spine of
the spruce
leaving it trembling,
alive in its want.
When I stand on the earth
my feet ache
for the itch of the thin,
silken fibers
that mat the ground,
to pull
with my toes at the most
tender spot,
and feel the tight hug of
soil
tugging back, and know it
will not let go.
There is no confusion on
this hill,
no crisis
of identity or anxiety
about the
composition of choices,
what cup
to drink from, or fear
that I am not
enough. Hesitation gives
way to
peace. Clarity is coupled
with hope.
It rises high above me,
roots sinking,
stretched in enamored
thirst,
deeply. Holding hands with
Living Water,
never quenched but always
full, branches plump with
buds
on the verge of bursting.
