I turned 50 years old this year on April 9. There was nothing I wanted more on this day than to wake up alone in the wilderness. It’s not easy to extract oneself from a life caring for plants, especially as temperatures reach the 80s. Fortunately Beaver Creek Wilderness is just a few miles upstream of the farm. By late afternoon I had finished my chores and was on the trail with my faithful canine companion, Juju. Spring was in full swing, and my favorite plant allies were blooming along my journey—Indian paintbrush, sego lily and claret cup cactus. The reminder that wildflowers blossom abundantly without human tending filled me with joy. I am most alive and awake when I am in the wilds with plants. I never feel alone; I am cared for and welcomed in a deep way. Mary Oliver says it eloquently in the poem “Sleeping in the Forest.”
I thought the earth
remembered me, she
took me back so tenderly, arranging
her dark skirts, her pockets
full of lichens and seeds.
The day was unusually hot for April, and when we reached the creek crossing about four miles in, I shed my clothes and sank into the cold creek water, watching the afternoon sun glow on the sandstone, the green tips of willows and ash trees dancing with their shadows. It felt like a baptism, to be born again with the spring energy, remembering what it is like to wake up, to be alive, and be glad to be here on this planet and in this life. I noticed the roots of a Gooding’s willow tree seamlessly growing around rocks to anchor into the shifting riverbed. I can’t imagine the strength it takes to live here. This being endures countless floods, testaments to time and flow, and yet always finds the earth—the source of life—even as it constantly changes.
Fifteen years ago I wrote an ode to a desert creek from this place and I am struck how the theme I explored then is still relevant to me.
There is something about a desert creek
on the eve of April
with spring dancing all through the air
traveling
on the wings of morning cloaks and swallowtails
flitting gracefully through the sky.
There is the newness of everything green,
just impossibly so, in technicolor shades.
Thousands of individual leaves greeting the world of the sun,
each in their own exuberance.
The sycamore leaf is soft and still curling inward,
twisting and lengthening into its greatest self,
unfurling
into a broad and merciful canopy;
that will offer the gift of deep shade in summer
then turn colors of umber and fall
to the ground in an earthen blanket.
I wish I could be like this leaf,
inventing myself again each spring,
coming alive
simple and green, new to this world,
awake to the wonder.
Living out long summer days in fullness
then releasing everything, letting go
and surrendering
floating easily to rest on the earth
becoming part of something greater
than me.
As I age, I sense my kinship growing with the plant world. They are old friends, teachers and elders. I take time to observe and listen to the wisdom they offer. I pay attention to the way they grow, rooted in place, adapting to the trials and extremes presented to them and still finding ways to bloom. As I grow and change I appreciate their resilience.
Resting with a trailside claret cup cactus I feel alive, invigorated with overflowing creative life force energy. The claret cup is a cluster of columnar cacti clothed in spines. They huddle together like a crowd of protesters, or a clan holding ceremony. They press against one another as if garnering support and energy for whatever lies ahead. The red flowers are cups overflowing and glowing with abundance, as if lit from within. The chartreuse stigma, the sticky surface that guides pollen to the ovary tube, is like an exuberant jazz hand, luscious and alive, in perfect contrast to the red flower petals. This cacti colony seems to be at peace, looking out with the laser eye, full of strength and vitality from the collective. It takes a long time to build a community. At this stage in my life I feel like I am part of a growing cluster like this of people and plants rooted in place, offering our special gifts to the world.
Juju and I found a magical perch high above the creek framed by two tributaries with a view of the creek traveling downstream. As the sun set I listened to the wind swishing through the pinyon and juniper trees and heard the familiar music of canyon wren’s lilting evening song. It felt like a homecoming to find my roots in a familiar place—as if part of me has always lived here. Through the years I have taken refuge in this desert creek to experience the seasons, nurse heartaches, connect with the plants I love, with myself and the mystery beyond.
At my camp I watched the sun set behind the stately skeleton of an agave stalk. The curtains went down on the day and the stars emerged. Constellations came into view, growing brighter each moment. Agaves (also known as century plant) spend 25-100 years rooting in place before they shoot up a stalk, at which point the whole plant dies. To me they have always been sentinels bearing the message—this is your moment, give it all you got! Live the truth, to the solid core of who you are.
I meditated on the inevitability of my own death with the sculptural beauty of the agave in the darkness. Counting down from 10 years to 10 seconds left to live, waves of emotions swelled from grief to giddiness realizing each day is a gift and I only have time and energy for what is truly important.
I lay awake for a long time, staring at the vast night sky with Mary Oliver’s poem: “nothing between me and the white fire of the stars but my thoughts, and they floated light as moths among the branches to the perfect trees.”
