Mr. Wilson's Arboretum

June 21, 2002

Summer Vacating

Summer is here.
It’s finally starting to feel like it, with a little sun and heat, but it’s an uncertain Summer. A damp drought; war and languor; the confusion of a new millennium in an old season.
Time to get out of town.
So I’m going; first serious vacation I’ve had in a good while.
Going to Montana, on a DMTree chartered tour.
I hear they have mountains and valleys and deserts and prairies, and badlands and good lands, and just a lot of lands in general.
I’ve never been out west, and I’m looking forward to it. Which is not the same thing as wanting to get away from Home, but maybe that too. Habit has its uses, but it’s good to break routine from time to time. Tradition is strong enough to bridge the gaps.
And Summer is the season for vacations.

The Park is a survival strategy of the City, and maybe the big lands out west will make it pale in comparison. But there is no comparison, or rather, there is only comparison, and not competition. Seeing the Wonders of the World makes us appreciate Home all the more. And I don’t think any place anywhere has a view like this one.
But it’ll still be there when I get back.

June 16, 2002

One in a Long Line

Yesterday I wrote of my conversation with the Goddess, but today is Father’s Day, and the masculine case cannot be ignored. The Goddess is a corrective in our culture, and if I’ve sought Her out, it may be an index of my alienation. Regardless, the spiritual dialectic of our sexual dimorphism requires of us some relation to the male God; the one that we meet first as the Father.

When I recall my late father, he is a reminder that I have less than fulfilled my own relationship to maleness. I cannot see the future, but it seems increasingly unlikely that I will ever be a father, and in me his line is at an end. I cannot see the future, but I can see the past, locked in a photograph from his estate. There he is with his father; one of two grandfathers I never knew. Both died while my parents were yet young. It must be the early 1920’s, while the century was yet young, perhaps on Sugar Island, near Sault Sainte Marie, where he was born in 1919.

They stand on a dock.
All his life, my Father stood on the dock. He was a fisherman, though not a fancy one; maybe a rowboat on occasion, but mostly standing on the dock, casting towards a receding horizon. And he stood on the dock and saw his loved ones off, and for some of us, he was there to pick us up when we got back.
Now there is a horizon between us.

He gazes out into the water, but it is in the nature of a child to be distracted; it is the duty of a man to face the camera, like my grandfather, dapper in his summer whites and straw boater. I look at my father, and imagine that I can see in the child something of the man that I knew. And I look at my grandfather, and I wonder what of him there is in me.

I have loosed myself from the moorings where most of men have docked. Such power to create as I posses passes into words and images, not into flesh.
I do not grudge the choice.
Still, it seems I have unfinished business with the Father; to somehow bring Him forth, whose absence in me mirrors my own father’s death.
If I would not be an empty mirror, I must reflect His image.
For I am a man, if not a father, and that, I think, will make me a better man.

I say this as a servant of the Goddess, nor does She forget, that for every one of Her children, there is also a Father, in a line that has not failed yet.

June 15, 2002

Conversation

Now, in this quickly passing moment; while it’s still Spring, let me tell you about a conversation that I have. Walking across the Meadow swath; cresting the slope of the Ravine; following the course of the Loch, I am not alone in thought.
The source of thought I do not know, for things come to my mind that I cannot account for; but if it would be understood, thought must be distilled as Word.
Every word is an answer, and begs another presence; no utterance but assumes an ear attuned to hear it.
The inner ear, the inner voice, converse.
Conversation goes both ways; the ear shall speak, the voice must listen.
Who speaks when we talk to ourselves?
Who speaks for me against resistance?
Who speaks to me through my resistance?

I have heard many voices, and honed my own against them.
I heard the voice of the Friend, loved and admired. Looked for the words that win approval; what would they say to what I think? Can I cause myself to think in such a way as I imagine they would wish?
Influence is a form of reply.
Peer review can be cruel, and our friends often prove as callow as we; yet some few achieve the estate of teacher.
And I have heard the voice of the Teacher, and measured all my learning by it. Tried to imagine the reply of one more knowledgeable than I.
Imagining what we do not know is a way of learning, but hard in the proving. Teachers don’t know everything, though the right words might make it seem so, leaving us to speak as a child to a parent.
And I have heard the voice of the Parent; that first voice echoes far.
More than we know, we are respondent to the words we heard in youth. We hear them still, across the years, the more so when they echo in the mouths of friends or teachers, or even those dear liars that we know, who lie by saying something true, but meaning something else.

All of these have spoken to me, and I reply as best I can.
But impetus precedes response, so who would I address, if I could choose the ear to receive my inner voice?
I must speak to my Love.
Who She is, I know no more than I know where my thoughts come from.
I know Her nonetheless.
It’s Her that I address, to plead my cause; advance my suit; at best, explain myself.
She answers in the dampness of a cold morning in May; a June that stumbles on towards Summer, leaving me wondering...
And I say, “well, yes, but wouldn’t you like to hear some more about me?”
But She knows me by my deeds, and knows the distance between my deeds and my well intentioned thoughts.

Somewhere between thoughts and deeds are words.
Or, words are a kind of deed, which may or may not be of an easy sort, compared to other actions one may take in the World. For my part, I account them beyond value. If I spend mine on Her, it’s in the faith that our conversation will teach me to please Her. That, I think, will make me a better man.
And I know she will love a better man.

A better man may recognize Her in the words of women of this world, and even some men. Knowing that they share Her voice, and learning to hear it, serves reply to my meditations, and corrects me with the force of Life as it is truly lived. And that’s really the better part of what I mean when I talk about worshipping the Goddess; a conversation of the heart, or head, or with a friend.
So if I talk to myself, or if you hear voices, it’s not to be thought strange.
Because we must have something to talk about.
And someone to talk to.
Beyond the conversation is silence: Mystery awaits your voice.

May 27, 2002

A Memorial Day Triad

Three Things to Remember:

There is No Holiday of War
Properly construed, there are no Holidays, certainly no holy days, associated with war and its victims. Such memorials are commemorations rather than observations. I am an observer, and will honor what I can see: the presence of the Goddess, manifest upon the face of the Land. Ignorant of our endless battles, Her seasons reiterate a lesson taught across time. In Her, experience and memory are one. But we are forgetful, and if we really remembered our war dead we would honor them by living in peace.

There is No Holiday of Peace
Well worthy of a holiday, but we regard peace as our native state, and war an aberration. Peace is the presupposition of all the Holidays; the soil our way of life is nurtured in. Peace is transparent as water, and as vital; the medium in which we launch our celebrations. A season only appreciated upon leaving.

Today’s Holiday is the Gateway of Summer
So another Spring passes from actuality to memory. It’s been a strange one. Inside out, you could say: hot and dry in April; cold and wet in May. Reservoir levels are creeping up, and it certainly doesn’t feel like we’re in a drought, but there are still water supply concerns to trouble the prospects of Summer.

A fitful Spring, dimmed by the shadow of war. Sporadic and erratic. Frost at the beginning of the season retarded the momentum of the warm Winter; then the heat wave fooled many plants into panic-blooming; coming and going in a hurry, but it was only an advertisement for a Summer yet held in abeyance. Since then we’ve been below average in temperature, and above in precipitation. “We need the rain” is the oft repeated truism, but the weather patterns have not favored my schedule, and I haven’t coincided with the best waves of migrating birds, slipping through when they can. Still, there have been some nice ones, including the Little Blue Heron, a very rare sight in the Park, and the Kentucky Warbler; my thirty-fourth warbler species, leaving only the Golden-winged yet to be found, among those typically expected in our area. And there was the pleasure of sharing a few of these things with friends; the pleasure of sharing Life.

So I’m not complaining, though the Spring is waning, and early morning rambles must give way to the multitudes and their barbecues. The Holiday requires no less. I will remember this Spring, and hope to celebrate another. I will honor the dead, but not their deaths. I will seek to live in peace.
I will step into a further season.

I will remember
three things:
remember War,
remember Peace,
and in between,
the Dead.
In Memoriam;
in Spring,
Immemorial.

May 12, 2002

Mother’s Day

An empty egg, found upon the forest floor.
From one of the many Robin’s nests, no doubt. Tossed out after the emergence of the chick, one hopes, though predation is just as likely. Was that the hole where the baby first broke through at birth, or where some rapacious Jay or Grackle broke in to consume it? Motherhood is not without its risks, but every empty egg must fill a heart, and she would lose her own life to save her offspring.
We need ask of ourselves no more than what our Mother has already given.
And still would give again.

Again and again.
Generative of generations, Motherhood is the original repetition, the chorus of the song of Life.
In Spring, Hers is the only aim, no matter that a foolish male gamete may so suppose as to proclaim dominion over land and labors. His mark is but affixed to his subservience. His space; Her place to choose. She may grace him or be gone.
And yet she ever makes the choice and takes the chance, and those of us who have been born are glad.

The Robins are already hatching. They will go on to a second brood; even a third. The egg shards of the past do not concern them. For us, it’s different. We cannot wander far from the womb without a backward, longing look. It’s not so much return we seek, (for that we’ll have to hope ahead,) but the means to repay the debt of birth. This we can hardly do, except to live our lives with Her approval.
Accept Her guidance.
Wonder at Her surprises.
Surely Mother is the wisest.
Or only such a fool
as made a place here in the World
for You.

May 1, 2002

For May Day, I Will Give My Love a Cherry

Today is for the flower, and not the fruit.
There is an old seduction song, in riddle form, that begs a cherry without a stone.
No seed but once a flower was; the joke is in continuing to know these things as one.
On May Day do not look away, at changes done and change to come,
For the cherry of the moment is the flower not the stone.
No flesh of fruit, no sustenance; a breath drawn in, but not blown out.
Seduce me with a flower, and feed me on the Sun;
We shall not ask a taste of fruit beyond the act of love.
Or so we say on May Day, heedless; easy; all undone.
We live by fruit; we love by bloom.
Bloom, May!
And then the stone.

April 28, 2002

Spring’s Progress

April 7, 2002

Daylife Time

In the missing hour, witching hour
Everything moves over one measured unit
Sooner to tomorrow
Time butchering
Changing rules midstream
But make believe you’ve had enough sleep
And wake too fast into another week

Weekly I try to make it on time
To do and to be done with
Weakly I fight the passing hours
Exchanging morning for evening light
Wonder could we save a lifetime’s time
Tomorrow at 2:00 AM we’ll say
Everybody’s fifty years older than today
One last chance to make up
For the mistakes of age

April 1, 2002

April and Its Fools

March 31, 2002

Back to Life

Death?
Yes:
Everywhere and always.
Our little island of existence floats on an ocean of death. Our whole life is as a predicate, leading up to the subject of death. It’s always there; and we will be there always, as far as we know.
Which is not very far.
It’s all rather mysterious from this vantage.

Contemplating death brings us swiftly to the Mysteries.
There are arts of prayer and meditation far beyond what I know, and maybe I’m just crude, but I find thinking about being dead is a real grassroots technique for engaging spiritual energy. Something cries out from deep inside me when I think of it (and I can’t help thinking of it): a welling up; a bottoming out; a piercing through. A feeling? I don’t know how to say; what to call it; but I believe it comes from the very locus of my being; the seat of all my understanding. If I were to go searching for what we call the soul, I might look in that direction.

Thinking about death is thinking about the future.
Humans, we suppose, are gifted with a foresight beyond that of other creatures. This gift torments us with the premonition of our own death, but it also allows us to look beyond the perishable self; to see the larger patterns at work in the World; the cycles that balance Death with Life. Such prescience illuminates the future, and in so doing clarifies our lives today, reflecting backwards, as it were; even into the past. For it is the knowledge of Time, as opposed to the Ecstasy of a given moment of existence.

Viewing things on a scale greater than our own lives serves to disarm the ego, opening us up to a new and palliative understanding of how we fit into the larger rhythms of Life and Death. Here too is a sort of Ecstasy, for in this manner we are granted a radical awareness, which Tradition understands as Rebirth: that which is gained when the spirit of Life is transfigured by the knowledge of Death.

The future of Life must pass through the presence of Death. And though there may be many lives, there is only one death. Death is all the same, but every life is different, and so we suffer separation. Such is our fate in a flawed creation. Thus is the eternal Spirit nailed to a moment in Time.
We need to believe we are the better for it.
We must have faith that it is so.

Faith consists in trusting that our intuition is congruent with a Truth too large for us to otherwise encompass.
The Promise beyond Life is that all lives are as One.
It is through the Mystery of Death that we learn to receive this surety.
Our expanded capacity for understanding is the beginning of reunification; allowing us to look beyond Death, and beyond ourselves.
We are born to die; we are reborn to live:
the fate and the duty of being Human.
We are the present manifestation of that future Rebirth which we celebrate upon this Easter day.
We are the promise of another Spring; the promise of Life.
Life?
Yes:
Everywhere and always.

March 20, 2002

The first day of Spring.
Officially.
I'm using my triad to navigate, and sometimes it seems the Spring holidays start as soon as Groundhog Day, but today, at 2:16 PM, is the specific and scientific arrival of the season, as measured by a cosmic gauge. Mantic rodents notwithstanding, the celestial machinery does not recognize the concept of an early Spring.

Still, it has been a mild Winter.
Only one real snowfall, and that didn't last two days. Hardly any rain either, so now drought, and another "hottest Summer on record" beckon. But first, the passing season has one last gibe, turning wet and cold for its finale.

Just as well, maybe.
I'm detained: couldn't get away from work for a proper observance, but this is no weather to spend twelve hours in. Better will be coming, along with birds and blossoms. And Holidays, to truly impress the Spring upon us. But there's no denying the calendar, and the Equinox is achieved, even as I write this.
I'll just have to wait for the weekend.

I do have one token for you. My annual presentation of the flowers of the Red Maple; the first real blooms of the New Year. They were peaking at the end of February, a good three weeks ahead of last year's schedule, and now are faded, giving way to other signs of Spring: leaves of Apple, flowers of Forsythia, and Elms already nursing seed. All these precede the true tumult of the season, offering encouragement as we look for the south wind and an early sunrise. The Maple tides us over in a time of waiting, but now it's official: Spring is here, and things can only get better.
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March 17, 2002

Saint Patrick’s Feathered Serpent

Two years ago, when we first looked at Spring in the Arboretum, I plotted its course through a triad of Vernal Holidays: Saint Patrick’s for the Past; Easter for the Future; May Day for the Moment.

In this schema, Saint Patrick’s Day is the Holiday of ancestors and nostalgia, which provides the entree to my real subject: that Owl. That’s right, by the alchemy of due regard, (and my need to get this off my chest), the Valentine’s Day Owl is transformed into the Saint Patrick’s Day Owl. Which is not to say it’s green; birds of prey generally are not. A few hawks, like the Kestrel, are brightly colored, but Owls are typically nocturnal hunters, cryptically patterned, without iridescence.

That’s the case with this Eastern Screech Owl. It might have been red, but it’s the more common gray instead, and inconspicuous. It spends its days sitting in the hollow tree near the transverse road: people stream by, joggers, bikers, but nobody seems to see it. Oh, I see it, but I’m a birdwatcher. And I am informed, by the birdwatching authorities, that this bird cannot be counted.
It’s almost as if it wasn’t there.
Almost.

The Owl is there as an act of Nostalgia.
It’s one of eighteen that were released in the Park last Fall, as part of an effort to reestablish native species that have been extirpated from the city. As if our missing familiars might show us the way home.

The sentiment seems laudable, redolent with nostalgia for our old country, but there remains some question about the cogency of these repatriation projects. Plants have generally done better than the animals they ultimately support, but animals are more engaging for publicity purposes, and publicity seems to be a large part of the equation. It sometimes seems that animals are installed in the parks with more ceremony than research, and with questionable prospects for survival.

So there’s been criticism.
And Screech Owls.
At least a few are still around, some with radio transmitters, though they’ll remove them if they can. Some of the birders have a certain contempt for the whole business, tempered by the fact that it is, after all, a real Owl, even if you can’t add it to your list, except as a released bird.
You can’t count it, but it counts; as much as any living thing.

In my temporal triad of Spring, the Owl might be seen as a mediator. Its premise is nostalgic, but its promise is of future plenitude: a reborn diversity which, if it resurrects our past, must fit it into an as yet unrealized world, where the stuff of memory will entwine with the strange and new. Meanwhile, there is this moment, our moment, in which the Owl is one more misplaced soul, seeking a little sustenance in the dark woods.

Owls are know for swiveling their heads. Their big eyes are fixed, so they must turn the entire head, and can do so with such flexibility of neck as to face almost, but not quite directly, backwards. Still there will be a spot at best glimpsed peripherally. We too suffer from blind spots in our vision. Unknowns of past and future cast a shadow on our present; such is the darkness this Owl inhabits.

The “Old Country” is no longer a country, or even a place, as such. Our memory of Nature, (as approximated in the Park), now serves as the focus of our Nostalgia. And the unlikely “return” of Nature is ever our desire. Today’s Saint Patrick would need to bring the snakes back to Ireland. One sentimental day a year is not enough to accomplish it. We need to work on many fronts; in every time and place. Much healing must take place before the Screech Owl, of its own volition, returns to the heart of Manhattan. That Owl we will happily count. As for the one we have now, I’ve managed to get two holidays out of it, so the least I can do is give it the benefit of the doubt.
I fear its fate, but I hope for its survival.

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