Occasionally, and perhaps more often than I should during times of feeling down (usually brought on by the onset of stress or seasonal changes) I feel a pang of homesickness for the place where I grew up - specifically the house and land surrounding. Part of this comes from a sense of feeling displaced that has lessened through the years but will never quite subside. In fact, it only mostly subsides when all the factors needed for a low stress life are at work - good job with steady income, decent health coverage, good personal health and loving relationships, a safe and warm place to call home. Like a healthy ecosystem, there are a number of factors that encompass happy life and when the balance tilts a bit off center, the effects are immediately noticeable.
Out of all all this chaos comes the notion that although change is inevitable, it is very hard. For many years I have slowly followed a growing interest in science and in particular in ecology. But how to get from point A to B after years of an economy going from bad to worse, two businesses closing and two lay-offs, and college loans from a first degree combined with a new job with low pay and higher stress. However cliche, the world is increasingly faster and louder, and the internet and smart phones makes it all the more hectic. For someone who is always curious about how the world works, more technology can make daily existence overwhelming. I recently read an article in which the author detailed her plan to sit down and get some "real" work done, only to go off track in to the depths of Google. From one site to another - two hours later the author was back where she began with an unfinished project and a search engine history that defied logic.
This happens to me a lot, but today the stars aligned and the unexpected culminated in a surprising twist. It started with me forcing myself outside for a walk in the beautiful weather. I felt sluggish and wanted to stay inside but out I went, and stopped by the bookstore on my way home. I found a book titled Our Native Trees by Harriet L. Keeler during a search for the book Mycelium Running by Paul Stamets. I've been watching some TEDTalks on Netflix and was really blown away by Paul Stamets' talk. As I searched in vain for the other book I saw a coworker and we started chatting about various things, including a tree he and his fiance had been attempting to identify. Back to the Nature section we went, and plucked the Tree Identification Book by George Symonds from the shelf. "It wasn't a birch, it's a poplar!" we exclaimed, and on the conversation went - moving to the coworker's father's line of work and his status as Master Gardner. "Someone can also be a Master Ecologist," he said and as we chatted away a woman reading a gardening book turned and said, "I'm sorry to interrupt but I could not help overhearing, it is actually called a Master Naturalist." We all talked more and as it would happen she is an ecologist who works for the DNR. We started to part ways and something made me stop and turn back to ask for her contact information to learn more about her profession and how she arrived to where she is today. She was more than gracious and gave me her work email so that we could plan a time for an informational interview.
I purchases Our Native Trees for $3.99 and crunched my way homeward through the leaves. It was sunny and warm on the steps and I read a bit about Harriet L. Keeler in the Forward written by Anne Raver. I was impressed by Anne's candidness to mention that she received a D in Biology in college as I also received a grade in that range. Who was Anne Raver? I had no idea. Back to Google for some answers. According to Google, Anne Raver is a writer for the New York Times and just last month she wrote an article titled "Saying Goodbye to the Family Farm" about selling the family land (granted it was only six acres but considering the postage stamp size plots people live on in the city I am sure it seems like much more). I loved the beginning where Raver writes "It would be easier to move than to ask permission to walk over fields that I know like the curve of my own hips. I know where the stream turns, where the otter lives."
Even though I have not lived on the farm where I grew up for years I can tell you where there is a little patch of what I call tuft grass to the left of the driveway next to the stream above the culvert that is beside the field where the cows come to pasture for the summer. I know what the grass smells like when it has just been cut, and how the few pine trees left by the house sound in the wind.
How do we deal with the loss of the land we love? Is our collective consciousness feeling the pain of this loss as we spend days driving on pavement instead of walking on a grass covered path? In The Idea of Wilderness author Max Oelschlaeger touches upon this very topic, describing the notion that we can only worship the idea of nature in hindsight since we now have the tools to minimize the impact weather and other living things have on us. We can sit in our comfortable home with the fire ablaze while the winter wind tries its best to find a drafty window to blow through.
Someday soon I too will want to ask permission to walk over the fields I once knew. I will want to run my hand along the top of the different types of grasses, some sharp and some soft. I will want to dig my hands in to the clay lined creek beds, and watch the water bugs dance. Mostly, I will miss the sound of the wind rushing through the Austrian pines in front of the house. It is a sound I will never forget. For years I have rushed to stand beneath other tall trees with the hope of hearing the sound, only to understand that a certain stand of trees certainly stands in completely unique way, each group bending and blowing to and fro with purpose.
p.s. I would love to attach a sound recording of the wind in these particular trees, but blogger doesn't allow recordings to be uploaded sans video. Someday I will finish making a little imovie that contains video stills attached to the recording and post it here.
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