Knotweed dug and cut. Cardboard spread and mulch hauled. In gratitude to the earth for abundant gifts freely given, it is the very least we can do.
we needed to be outside
Outside the warmth of the sun reaches my core, birdsong delights my ears, clouds—my heart sentries—drift in the sky. My child’s mouth hurts from the joy of the season’s first salmonberries. We needed to be outside to be feel what it is to be home.
May 23 2021 Work Party
The Blue-Green Stream
by Wang Wei
Translated by Florence Ayscough and Amy Lowell
Every time I have started for the Yellow Flower River,
I have gone down the Blue-Green Stream,
Following the hills, making ten thousand turnings,
We go along rapidly, but advance scarcely one hundred li.
We are in the midst of a noise of water,
Of the confused and mingled sounds of water broken by stones,
And in the deep darkness of pine trees.
Rocked, rocked,
Moving on and on,
We float past water-chestnuts
Into a still clearness reflecting reeds and rushes.
My heart is clean and white as silk; it has already achieved Peace;
It is smooth as the placid river.
I love to stay here, curled up on the rocks,
Dropping my fish-line forever.
May 8 2021 Work Party
Sometimes the digging and pulling and cutting
is not the medicine
but the space for feeling the pain
of living in a world barreling
toward the brink of what could be
mass extinction
or maybe something else
maybe something
generative and alive
that requires a complete surrender
to grieving
in order to be born.
Either way
the earth knows
how to hold our tears.
April 24 2021 Work Party
Let Me Begin Again
by Major Jackson
Let me begin again as a quiet thought
in the shape of a shell slowly examined
by a brown child on a beach at dawn
straining to see their future. Let me begin
this time knowing the drumming in my dreams
is me inheriting the earth, is morning
lighting up the rivers. Let me burn
my vanities: old music in the pines, sifters
of scotch, a day moon like a signature
of night. This time, let me circle
the island of my fears only once then
live like a raging waterfall and grow
a magnificent mustache. Let me not ever be
the birdcage or the serrated blade or
the empty season. Dear Glacier, Dear Sea
of Stars, Dear Leopards disintegrating
at the outer limits of our greed; soon we will
encounter you only in motivational tweets.
Reader, I should have married you sooner.
This time, let me not sleep like the prophet who
believes he’s seen infinity. Let me run
at break-neck speeds toward sceneries
of doubt. I have no more dress rehearsals
to attend. Look closer: I am licking my lips.
***
I have nightmares about knotweed. In my dreams, our trampling on soil above roots awakens a slumbering giant. The knotweed rises slowly, aware of but untroubled by our presence–its will to live is strong and it does not fear us. It silently commands its roots to grow. We dig and pull and cut what we can out of the earth, but our aggressive removal only further provokes the giant. The roots grow faster, visibly tunneling through the dirt, traveling ten, twenty, thirty feet, deftly navigating rocks, tree roots, and other underground obstacles. Shoots push out of the soil along the way to harness energy from the sun. It colonizes the nearby clover field, grows up through the asphalt parking lot, and travels under the road to crumble newly installed concrete sidewalks on the opposite side of the street. It continues to grow even from small fragments we leave behind. We can’t work fast enough to contain its destructive spread and end up standing in a forest of knotweed stretching as far as the eye can see. We drop our tools and stare around us in bewildered defeat.
I wish I could place my knotweed nightmares solidly in the realm of fantasy. These things could actually happen though, and it is enough to paralyze me in my waking hours. Maybe it was a mistake to have begun digging, I think. Maybe I will just tiptoe around the knotweed and hope against hope that it doesn’t spread. I’ve already angered it, I’m sure, but maybe if I stop looking at it directly, it will simply disappear. It’s a holdover strategy from my childhood: If I stay small and quiet, I will be safe. If I stay still and move slowly, I won’t stir up anything painful and bad.
I breathe deeply. It’s the best medicine for moving through the paralysis. As I breathe, I am transported back in time to a classroom where I watched slides showing what white colonizers in the thrall of commerce and industrial ideas of progress did to our watershed. Land was cut to connect water from inland to sound. A big lake dropped 9 feet with the final cut. Wetlands drained. A river lost connection to the lake. The receding waters trapped salmon returning home to spawn. The river dried up. The watershed nature gave us was irrevocably changed.
“That was quite a day for the white people at least,” Joseph Moses of the Duwamish said. “The waters just went down, down, until our landing and canoes stood dry and there was no Black River at all. There were pools, of course, and the struggling fish trapped in them. People came from miles around, laughing and hollering and stuffing fish into gunny sacks.” Henry Moses, Duwamish, dragged his canoe out of the mud and said he never wanted to paddle it again.
By 1920, our tinkering with a watershed of over 2,000 square miles had shrunk it to fewer than 500. Enormous ships and industry forcibly displaced the Duwamish from their homeland. Because of the miracle they are, coho and chinook salmon managed find their way through the changed watershed to their natal home in the Cedar River, though the hardships these changes wrought have helped bring those chinook to the brink of extinction. We may still lose them.
I feel the same burning anger I experienced when I learned all this for the first time. The link between what we did then and the climate and extinction crisis we are living through now becomes newly immediate. It took more or less a hundred years to get into this mess, I remind myself. It will take us time to get ourselves out. I’m not sure if we can, but I do know I get to orient my actions around different values–wholeness, harmony, balance, justice, diversity, equity, inclusion. I get to be an active participant in healing myself, in healing the land, in healing everything I can. Staying small helps no one. So I transmute the anger into determination, stubborn persistence, and dedication to a project that many would say is destined to fail. I will not look away from the knotweed. I will stare it down today, tomorrow, next week, next month, next year, for years and years and years.
Every day I will begin again.
April 10 2021 Work Party
Nothing Wants to Suffer
by Danusha Laméris
after Linda Hogan
Nothing wants to suffer. Not the wind
as it scrapes itself against the cliff. Not the cliff
being eaten, slowly, by the sea. The earth does not want
to suffer the rough tread of those who do not notice it.
The trees do not want to suffer the axe, nor see
their sisters felled by root rot, mildew, rust.
The coyote in its den. The puma stalking its prey.
These, too, want ease and a tender animal in the mouth
to take their hunger. An offering, one hopes,
made quickly, and without much suffering.
The chair mourns an angry sitter. The lamp, a scalded moth.
A table, the weight of years of argument.
We know this, though we forget.
Not the shark nor the tiger, fanged as they are.
Nor the worm, content in its windowless world
of soil and stone. Not the stone, resting in its riverbed.
The riverbed, gazing up at the stars.
Least of all, the stars, ensconced in their canopy,
looking down at all of us— their offspring—
scattered so far beyond reach.
March 27 2021 Work Party
Little hands do important work. They find the smallest friends nestled in the soil and insist on safe haven for them. They stay present and persist and with determination dig roots longer than they are tall from dark, rich earth. They are filled with wisdom. I help, but work mostly to stay present to their journey. It’s an important one. And important for me to practice simply being alongside another–witnessing. Birds call to each other around us, clouds pass through a pale blue sky, robins engage in territorial dispute, a downy woodpecker stands sentinel. For some blissful moments that stretch to hours, it feels like we might just be all right.
March 21 2021
I intended only to move canes previously cut, but it is so hard to stop tending sometimes. I was mindful of possible bird nesting above and below. All things matter. Including you.
nesting season
Our community work parties came to an abrupt pandemic pause at the end of February 2020 and did not resume until fall, so this year brings a new consideration: How to move forward with habitat restoration without disrupting nesting season?
Work in our original area is slowing as we maintain what we have done, and we have just barely started on a new area overgrown with Himalayan blackberry. Birdsong–from chickadees, robins, juncos, and so many birds I have yet to learn–already fills the air, telling me I’m really too late to clear more canes, but I am desperate not to lose these coming months of work in the park.
We must mow down all the blackberry canes now! I think. I must do it in this first bit of March so that we can dig root balls through the rest of spring and summer! It has to be right now and fast and there is no time to spare because, if I am honest with myself, I am already too late and shouldn’t be doing this at all!
A power tool would be just the thing, I think, and so I rent one with visions of mowing all the canes running the length of the park north of the parking lot entrance. It is a gas powered tool, which I vaguely know to be horrible, but I go ahead anyway in my desperation and rush.
The tool is not hard to master, but it is heavy and loud and malodorous. I accidentally cut an ossoberry plant, hidden in the thicket of Himalayan blackberry, that I mean to keep. The Himalayan canes, thicker than my thumb and barbed for battle, protect themselves by bowing far from where where they sprout from the ground, making it difficult for me to see and reach them there. I end up trying to whack them in the air with the round, spinning blade. It is not how the tool was intended to be used and is, unsurprisingly, inefficient. Within minutes of struggling with the canes and tool, I feel nauseous from the fumes. Still, I press on for a while.
And then I surrender.
I lay down the power tool, pick up the hand clippers, and move much closer to the canes. I am able to work more precisely to protect the native plants we want to keep. I seem no slower–and perhaps even more effective–with the hand clippers than with the power tool, and they make for quieter work. Contemplative. I can hear the birdsong again and the sounds of families enjoying far off places in the park. I feel the air enveloping me and something deep within me vibrating in connection with the plants and animals nearby. I am satisfied to be working like this. It feels like the right kind of hard. It feels just right.
As we leave the park, I feel the lessons of my experience with the power tool surface: Perhaps this work of tending to the earth is not meant to be fast in the way we have come to expect things to be in our modern capitalist society.
Perhaps the lessons of the power tool can be generalized beyond the park.
Perhaps slow and steady, in tune to the natural cycles of the seasons and life, is how this was meant to be all along. How have we gotten so far in practice from this idea? And how can we get back? Perhaps the lesson is that it is okay, smart even, to give up attachment to what isn’t working and find another way.
Perhaps the lesson is that there need be no rush, that trusting in ourselves and in the wisdom of accumulated knowledge can lead us, in good time, where we need to be.
February 27 2021 Work Party
We’ve started removal of a second large patch of Himalayan blackberry at Wallace Swamp Creek Park! What satisfying progress can be made by small, dedicated groups of people. What a balm such kinship is during this pandemic time.
We found gifts in every bit of earth reclaimed–Oregon grape growing all this time under the thick blackberry bramble, brilliantly orange witches butter on the side of a decaying stump, luscious green moss blanketing a fallen tree.
And then a walk to the creek revealed another gift: a pair of hooded mergansers, surfing the riffle and then coming to rest in a pool created by sediment deposits, just being themselves, seemingly unaware of their beauty and the delight they brought to those who witnessed.
What a gift it all is.