Trace

Hands on my hips, staring down my overcrowded pollinator garden, willing the buds to bloom already.

Arms crossed, staring down at the blank spaces in the garden bed. There are more weeds than plants.

On my haunches at the wood’s edge where I have planted many native woodland plants. The Mayapples are inundated with clingy Catchweed.

Everything saturated from rain. Everything smelling fungal and raw.

Yesterday, I had no trace of patience with myself.

I had been feeling out-of-sync with the land I live on. The seedlings I grew in my basement, barely any of them kept or survived the bouts of cold weather. The dependable Bee Balm and Irises alongside the house had been smashed by men who installed the new siding on our house. Three plants I installed last year in the newer pollinator garden did not survive the winter. Having been away for half my weekend, I returned home overwhelmed by everything I wanted to do and the very little time I had left of my weekend to do it. The patio was still strewn with leaves from fall and bits of house from the siding installation. All of it waterlogged, clinging, unwilling to move with a broom. Pockets of unkempt weediness all over and if I were to pull them root-and-all, I’d displace a spider or five or disturb some kind of churning-into-life. I felt incredibly uncomfortable and antsy.

I straddled the line between paralysis and just do something. Many of us are familiar with the uneasy energy where one has so much to do but nowhere to begin, so beginning stalls and stalls. But I decided to just begin. My husband Brian and I do this thing where if we don’t know what to do with the energy we have, we let our environment guide us. I started while staring out a window. Right outside the window was a new Coral Honeysuckle plant that needed planting. Unsure of my plan for it, I dug the stubborn hole anyway and planted the damn thing even though I don’t yet have a trellis for it. Tears released from my eyes in that automaton way that isn’t crying. I knew my brain and body were tweaking and readjusting, sending information across this synapse, releasing a chemical through that duct, transpiring, pumping, perspiring, releasing. What was next? I saw my hedge shears and picked them up and took them to my nine garden beds where the grass around them grew too tall. I orbited each garden bed, cutting away the canopies of grass until I came to a smooth Garter Snake snug between the cool grass and the warm, galvanized metal. I did handle the snake briefly in order to admire them before placing them into the garden amongst the strawberry plants. I watched as the snake curled up against the garden wall, beneath the strawberry leaves, on guard. I continued on with my task. Putting the shears back, I saw my compost bin where I recently started a new batch of compost. I opened the bin and most of the discarded food scraps were floating in the recent rain water. I gathered five egg cartons and shredded them into the bin all the while watching an American Toad hop away. On and on I went, circumnavigating the house, seeing what I can do everywhere I went. I took small breaks, my emotions still fighting paralysis. I sat on the steps of the patio and yet another toad—this one much larger—hopped along the side of the house near the dryer vent. I handled the toad for a moment, showed my husband (“I believed you,” he said when I briefly brought the toad into the house), and put them back.

Back on task, I did a round of our land. The Jack-in-the-Pulpit is ecstatic and flamboyant in the woodland pocket of our yard. The Mayapples are struggling amongst all the Catchweed. The two young Red Buds have leaves but did not flower this year. This house came with a lot of old stuff. I moved an old, wooden lawn chair to the base of a tree and stuck my potted Olive Tree in it. I took an old piece of ladder and used it to support the Coral Honeysuckle for now. When the sun finally came out and things began to dry, I sat in the shade of our Maple tree and dozed off to the ethereal Wood Thrush’s song.

What I needed was to be off the clock. As of late, I have been living like the others. Meeting at this time, Zoom at that time, appointment at this time, friends at that time, dinner by this time, family at that time, home by this time, bed by that time, awake at this time, repair at that time. Do this and that between this time and that time. Respond to so-and-so at this time to let them know about that time. I am not as good at this as others are. I do not live by this as much as others do besides going to work. And even though there is so much that I love about the Zoom at this time, meeting at that time, family at this time, be awake for this by that time, I find myself dipping in and out of pockets of time, leaving traces of myself here and there. Before I dozed off to the Wood Thrush’s song, I watched through my binoculars a squirrel navigate a highway of branches and trunks from one end of our land to another end. So many decisions to make, so many branches from which to choose, and that squirrel expertly navigated a path with which they were likely familiar. Above my head—and yours—are crossways and highways that save time, are safest, are routine.

It is now the evening of today and I am feeling more synchronized. I spent the entire day outside covered in sweat and dirt. I returned my rock and fossil collection to their garden that is flush to the house. My patio is no longer a waterlogged mess. Flowers and herbs now surround me. When I began writing this, I saw the bats flitting about in the air but now it’s so dark that I can’t see them. When I look up from my word document (white words on dark “paper”), I see pale, parallel symbols across the sky.

It looks like a trace fossil.