I have satiated my need for fresh air with long walks around the neighborhood, looping down through Fort Vancouver and back up along the high school and community college. Trees are in bloom, little bulbs are peeking out in front yards, the grass is green. But this morning I ventured out to the store and decided to walk at the Salmon Creek Greenway Trail, since it’s near the store and I am getting a little bored of my neighborhood jaunt. There were a few other people on the trail, and I was wary of their breath hanging in the cold air as they walked by. I gave everyone a wide berth. Does the virus linger in the air after someone passes by? They say its transmitted via coughs and sneezes, but now the CDC is recommending that everyone wear masks when in public, even though that contradicts what was said a month ago. This is a moment of unknowns. It seems nothing is certain, at least from the perspective of the status quo.
But the trail was much the same as it always is in early Spring; nettle popping up, Trillium hiding among the ferns, an explosion of green as the groundcover wakes up from Winter. The creek is full and birds abound. Hummingbirds, Canada geese, woodpeckers, ducks, little wrens and tiny bushtits. Robins, herons, egrets and a Bald Eagle. A multitude of chirping birds whose identity I do not know. The screeching of a Jay.
I have read reports of the water in Venice running clear for the first time in decades. Cougars and coyotes are venturing (further) into cities whose population is contained indoors. There has been a marked difference in pollution levels in China – so much so that it is noticeable from space. Los Angeles is breaking records for how clean its air is, due to the dramatic drop in vehicle traffic.
And, the toll on human systems – the economy, healthcare, social life, education – has been severe. This pandemic has led to an ugly, rapid exposure of the problems that have always been there but have been easier to put off dealing with until some other time. Yet, if we have ever doubted that change could happen at a rapid pace – for the better or for the worse -we are being shown otherwise.
From violent and sudden changes life reemerges. The eruption of Mt. St. Helens in 1980 created a moonscape where an abundant forest had been the day before. But the apparent emptiness of the place did not last long. The speed at which life reclaimed the landscape stunned scientists. When the Elwha Dam was removed in Olympic National Park, salmon returned almost immediately, despite projections that it would take much longer for them to come back to the river.
I read an essay by Terry Tempest Williams last night, “The Glorious Indifference of Wilderness“. She reflects on the stoicism of a mountain, and all that it has weathered in comparison to her own small life. And despite it’s indifference, the steady existence of the mountain offered respite and hope for her own aching soul. I experience a similar feeling when I place my hand on the bark of an ancient tree. Much like a mountain, the tree did not ask to exist. It does not care either way what happens to the small human standing at its base. But as a human, I am not indifferent. I have the gift of recognition, humility, and compassion. So what will emerge from this crisis?
The news is full of agony over the loss of the status quo. People are suffering – physically and financially. The response from the National government has been mediocre, but State and local governments are taking action. Communities are responding. People are paying attention. The exposure of the fragility of this system perhaps will ignite a reclamation – not one that replicates what was lost, but one that builds upon what was learned. The indifference of nature is a blessing that allows us to try, fail, and try again. The existence of grand mountains and old trees is a reminder that we are but a part of a larger whole. The persistence of wildlife returning to recently unsafe places is a physical manifestation of hope.
This is a moment of unknowns, but the pace of nature is certain. The solace of sunsets and riverbanks is universal. Erosion wears down bedrock to create canyons. Seeds drift in on the winds of storms. I’m not sure what the future will look like, or how long we’ll be in this moonscape, but projections seem to say that there will be lasting repercussions. Ripples emanating from the point of impact. The first waves shake the ship the most, but the later ones lull it softly, until calm returns to the surface again.
The Deliberate Millennial 