In the quiet of the morning a squirrel’s tail is swaying from behind a still woody bush in my neighbor’s yard. No sounds almost. Birdsong is muted by the glass of my window. Across the driveway the old cherry tree reaches up for sunlight. Its thick, curving branches look like monster octopus arms. The cherry may be as old as this house, a hundred years? The taxus behind it shoves itself forward, its green drooping needle arms greedy for light.
On the beds are small rocks, but not small enough for me to pick up. The pale brown, dry soil is shot by a lanugo of iridescent moss. Yellow daffodil faces pop up in unexpected places. Weeds are taking their time; they and the grasses will overpower the soil in small bits hardly noticeable day by day until suddenly you have a full invasion.
When I was in college in East Los Angeles long ago, I’d wander about with my drawing pad, sketching trees. I liked the thick charcoal pencils that you had to sharpen with a knife. I could move my hand fast and catch the movement of the trees. It was calming and healing in times when I felt a little lost.
Trees are rooted in soil and soar in the air. They’re fertile, twiggy, bony, massive... They are alone and together, like us.
They hold up mountains of snow and thin dressings of ice. They are home for birds and we sit under their welcoming branches. Most trees will outlive us. We are grateful for something lasting.
Photo by Bobby Halman. Guayacanes paint the streets of Panama City a brilliant yellow in March. The flowering lasts one week. Panameños call each other with sightings.
I read a really wonderful New York Times’ Op/Ed today that I’d saved from Wednesday: “Thank God for the Poets.” Mary Renki the writer says that we are species in love with beauty. She quotes a small excerpt from “The Kingfisher” by beloved poet, Mary Oliver:
The kingfisher rises out of the black wave
like a blue flower. In his beak
he carries a silver leaf. I think this is
the prettiest world—so long as you don’t mind
a little dying,
Talking about octopus arms, have you seen the Netflix documentary, My Octopus Teacher? It’s the most astonishing film I’ve ever seen about the pull the natural world has on us lowly humans.
The Oscars will actually happen this year—in a week—on April 25. When you look at the film financing companies and distributor credits, it’s almost all Netflix and Amazon. I do not understand the full implications of this for the movie world. Have you seen Nomadland yet (not a Netflix or Amazon flic) with Frances McDormand and David Strathairn? The writer/director/producer is Chloé Zhao, a Chinese woman filmmaker.
Nomadland is my choice for best picture of the year (best director/best actor, etcetera) although I also loved the exquisite Sound of Metal. Nomadland takes place in barren and gorgeous landscapes of the American West—the healing that nature offers to us so generously.
I hope you are well. Borrowing another line from Mary Oliver, what brings you “a splash of happiness”?
¿Qué cosas te hacen feliz?