I awaken each morning to the ritual moment of seeking out the sky. When I awaken this dawn there is a pale half-moon in early blue, shining through the frame of branches of the Eucalyptus trees. As likely as not, I speak to the trees, sometimes even aloud, and remind them, remind myself, that I chose this house because I wanted to look at this line of trees, now greatly increased after more than 40 years, for the rest of my life. It was not an idle thought; it has, as I both hoped it would and wondered if it were possible, sustained me.
My landmate, Cheryl Potts, an Indigenous woman, Alutiiq, from Kodiak Island, and I regularly check-in regarding the land. We each look at the leaves of the several hundred trees that were planted or planted themselves since I have come to live here. The terrible drought in California, requiring a reduction of 30% of our water use, takes a toll on the trees, which we need now more than ever. During the last drought, we reduced our water use, refraining when possible from flushing, gathering warming shower water in a bucket to water plants with, washing dishes in tubs and again, using the water for the trees, especially the new ones, the young sprouts. Now we have to cut water use drastically and we must also maintain the trees, which are reducing the temperature on this land by at least 10 degrees and providing a bulwark against the fires, which rage when everything is dry. When the leaves curl, we water, if necessary by hand, and after 10:00 at night. Whatever is required to preserve and protect their lives. When my children were infants, they required such tender care and now again, the trees.
There is another ritual that is not as pleasing but equally essential. I read the news in the morning to orient myself to what we are facing, you, me, all of us, the world, and so the animals and the insects, the salmon, the mountain lions, the lizards and the trees. And for all we know, the stars, blocked from touching us by a multitude of false lights in a mist of carbon and chemicals that we seem to prefer, watching us with grief.
Here is a paragraph from my latest book, La Vieja: Journal of Fire [Hand To Hand Publishing]:
“ … Bearing Witness. It’s the necessary step at her age toward living mindfully: Bear Witness. Engage in rigorous scrutiny of self and world, past and present. Remember. Be ruthless about your regrets and many failures. Be ruthless about our culture’s many failures. Then vision. Restore what has been wrongfully injured, eradicated and despised. Restore the natural world in its luminous and limitless complexity. The job of the elder is to remember how it was once before we destroyed it. To remember and to restore. To remember and to restore.”
My ritual, connecting to the staggering beauty of the natural world and to the increasingly alarming events of our daily lives, is so I might find some direction to the questions I am always carrying: How do we meet these times? How can we reverse extinction and climate dissolution? How can we undo the belligerence, violence and weaponry that saturate every aspect of our lives, language, culture, social relations, government, international affairs, technology, science and even eros?
So, I consider the paragraph as if an elder were speaking to me and I realize it is not only the elders who are called to remember and restore, it is every one of us. Each one of us is capable of remembering at least a single moment of beauty, a radiant vision of the natural world or a profound connection with another being, human or non-human and then living in such a way as to restore such moments.
When I was a teenager, or a young adult, just beginning, attending university or beginning to work to teach, bearing children, serving as an editor at the LA Free Press, an activist, as full of hope, determination, dedication, vision, piss and vinegar as frankly, I still am, I was frequently called a Luddite and told there was absolutely no way we could go back to the old ways, no matter how they would enhance, restore the times and future. It was not possible. But, you know, not possible doesn’t really hold water—since we’re trying to hold water—for a culture that doesn’t say impossible when a hot head says he wants to populate Mars within our lifetime, because he likes building rockets, I guess, and spaceships. Well, then, nothing is impossible, including returning to the beautiful ways that sustain all life. Sadly, he probably has no plans to colonize Mars with Indigenous wisdom so perhaps we can remove colonial mind here and learn to value the original wisdom of this planet. Then, who knows, if we’ll go to Mars or not. Maybe we’ll just stay here, happily, and not at war, with a few packs of wolves singing among the trees as the moon rises and then the clouds gathering so that more rain can fall, the way it once was in many places on the Earth. The way it was here. If you remember.
Remember, Restore
This speaks to me, so deeply thankful for your voice and guiding vision. 🙏🏽
Thank you, Deena, for remembering and reminding us to remember together.