Simultaneity of death and birth

The idea of this title came to me as I ambled through a woods named for, most likely, the last private “owner” of the property before it was let to lie fallow, to grow a forest of its own, and to become a Conservation Land of the town it is within the bounds of. I am grateful to this donator. This last owner’s death enabled the birth of this space of white and red pines, white, red, and black oaks, big tooth aspens, some hickories and a black walnut or two, some red and silver and sugar maples (the sugars, by the way, are probably in their last stand, being, as they are, trees in need a colder climate than is now provided in northeastern Massachusetts.), of flowering shrubs perhaps remaindered from the once groomed property, of skunk cabbage and small meandering waterways all leading to a nicely misshapen pond on which today floated, dabbled and dipped canada geese, mallards, and common goldeneyes.

I took pictures, some, which brought the idea to me, and some because the idea was now with me.

On this, I think rhododendron, on the same branch last year’s flower-seed pouch deflated and this year’s burgeoning

I thought of it some more and understood something, death is not only simultaneous with birth; death, readily when untrammeled, effortfully when bound, supports birth.

Rootball of fallen tree, grasses, new and past deckle it, skunk cabbage sprouting beside it in its offal, deep rich dirt plastered within the aimless roots, seeding who knows how many flora and feeding who knows how many fauna?
In the midst of new forest–pines, cabbages, shrubs, oaks, aspens–old–years of oak leaves and pine needles, and resting on the nest it is creating, a fallen tree, likely oak
Lichen, moss, ferns, pine–I think red based on needle per bunch count– emerge from and merge with once oak, once pine.

And. To live is to dance. This aged balletic elm, dipping back to the water alive with new growth, awes me with her flexion.

Then this Camperdown Scotch Elm below, cobbled, hobbled in the Boston Public Garden; God knows her history–perhaps intentionally imported, perhaps rode in on the boot of an intruder; sits reborn within herself, and that reborn self well aged, but never, I just read, grown tall. She is a wych elm cultivar, and known for being short and offering twisty, weeping branches….

Then there is the Beech, ah the Beech. Look how she reaches for sustenance and for places to root again and again, so abundant in the woods, so diligently sought and exposed to possibly deadly abuse and absent natural protectors in the manicure of a manmade space.
And yes, the bald cypress, doing what she does — popping baby cypressii around her circumference.

Psalm 57:5-6
Be exalted, O God, above the heavens.
Let your glory be over all the earth.

They have set a net for my steps;
my soul was bowed down.
They dug a pit in my path
but they have fallen into it

Author: Kate Hemenway

I like to explore, to observe. I like to be within what is around. There is always something to wonder about and to ponder. There is always something.. My favorite ways to get to places are bicycling and walking; or reading, or thinking, or asking. Please feel free to ask back, as I continue to wonder out loud, express joy or concern, or, sometimes, talk through my hat.

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