“The blue jay was persistent, its sharp call stabbing through the drizzle, as I scrubbed the mud room, removing mildew from a long forgotten corner where ski boots thrown and left to die were now in my cross hairs. There is truly no way to make all our spaces impervious to the ravages of rain, and snow, and melt, to preempt it as if we were lords of nature. I crawled out of my crouching position, to catch my breath, away from vinegar spray, away from the stench of spoiled wood, as his message finally took hold on my aware, unaltered brain, what is left of it. I felt his urgency, but still unsure of his message, I went directly to the apple tree, in which he was determined to stay hidden. Each time he called, I moved to either meet him, or scare him, sticking my head into the leaves, as he hopped from branch to branch. This tree, in particular, was not merely devoid of fruit, it had dropped its fruit early. Under foot, the squishy, roly poly chaos of an immature harvest made for unstable footing. His cry pierced the air. Once located, his eye met mine in a cagey gaze. I’m a frequent visitor to the underbelly of berry bushes, or, as in this case, the lower levels of trees. I can’t say I’m a stranger to this world. Yet, who isn’t feeling a bit out of step, or disconcerted by unfamiliar behaviors, coming from familiars, such as the jay, or the blueberry. Bird activity seems to be at an all time high. At least, their alarm bells, their ragged caws, so eloquent & mysterious. Now, at the tail end of a summer of flooding, a summer of little true sunlight, come these auditory, musical appearances, seemingly fraught, in a continuous stream of consternation. What could it be? We know. We know in our gut, when the balance of what was formerly taken for granted, is slowly receding. We had taken our “tailgate days” in good measure, sharing a drink from the cooler, at the summary of each bucolic day. Collecting out tools still embraced by our many hours of useful, gratifying toil, digging in a sound earth. Only barely cognizant of abnormalities, in air & sky, and of the fervent, rabid growth of plants who thrive on bad nutrition. Humans do that too, for a time, and we have, each of us, in our own lives, until we’ve stumbled upon supports, to grow us beyond the bounds of lack. What is being asked, as we scurry to eradicate “bad influences”, the sorry scourge of invasives; as we grasp for what we believe is steadfast, according to our peer group and acquired moral code? For any of us, who try to roll an herb, be it cannabis, or tobacco, or gotu cola, we must pass through the gates of the convenience store clerk. The mixing of metaphors, the plethora of intentions, from the weeds we pull, to “weed”, to medicinal plant resins, to the papers lodged behind the counter at 7-11, pick your poison. The new clerk was befuddled, and so he asked his superior, a gangly, tall, well worn in 19 year old, to elucidate which paper was which. This young man looked at me with a practiced nonchalance. “Do you like to take your time,” he said, “or do it quickly?” This was an odd question, coming from a total stranger, more than half my age. Inhaling herb smoke, in a summer of horrible fires and destruction, was merely half the battle. I could hardly speak. “You want these,” he continued. I return to the wisdom, of the jay. Where we cannot verbalize, we must cry out. Where we cannot know what ails us, nor the solution for healing, we must bow to the plants, and feed ourselves with the simple, holy touch of wind, and sky & deep, fallow magic. No need to “believe’” in anything, just lay amongst the raw pieces of what we love, until we heal.”
