Friday, March 27, 2015

Intrepid



Intrepid. My wife re-introduced me to this word last night in a burst of giggles that rocked our bed as I settled more deeply under the down comforter. Her mirth occasioned by the secret knowledge of a colleague’s ignorance of the word’s meaning, she tumbled into a laughing fit at the thought of one’s unfamiliarity with this wonderful word.

Intrepid. To say it conjures pilots, explorers, adventurers, trailblazers. Its synonyms – fearless, courageous – pop readily to mind. The three syllables pack a punch, the force of tongue to back of teeth to produce the bold “tr-” a pseudo onomatopoeia. Defiance of convention. Bucking trends. Giving the lie to limiting norms or stifling stereotypes. Transcending perceived limitations. Acting boldly. So many ways to capture the word’s meaning, its arms-crossed, upwardly-thrust-chin quality.

Having spent the better part of the year among farmers and ranchers, intrepid also speaks to me of those who live off the land and waters. The seasoned organic vegetable farmer who confronts the thousandth day of a searing drought. The enthusiastic Greenhorn birthing his first pair of kids. The young dairy woman sleeping beside her sick Jersey cow.

Equally, it evokes the creatures who shelter under Mother Nature’s expansive roof: great egrets and blue herons, buffleheads and mallards, Canada geese and plovers, chickadees and robins. Redwoods, cedars, aspens, scrub oaks, eucalyptus, sycamore. Cattails, water weed, marsh and Pampas grasses, and also wild radish, clover, and even pesky Bermuda grass. 

I watched yesterday as a pair of pale yellow zebra-striped butterflies spiraled sunward then plunged tens of feet toward the packed dry earth in a dramatic mating dance, seemingly oblivious to barbed wire topped chain link fences, fast-flying crows, oblivious joggers. They danced their twirly, exuberant choreography intrepidly; cells in motion, energy completely in flow.


What would it mean to truly live an intrepid life, courage an inseparable companion, open-heartedness and faith coursing in your veins? What soaring choreography might be possible carried by wings of this kind of love?

The Swan

Did you too see it, drifting, all night, on the black river?
Did you see it in the morning, rising into the silvery air -
An armful of white blossoms,
A perfect commotion of silk and linen as it leaned
into the bondage of its wings; a snowbank, a bank of lilies,
Biting the air with its black beak?
Did you hear it, fluting and whistling
A shrill dark music - like the rain pelting the trees
- like a waterfall
Knifing down the black ledges?
And did you see it, finally, just under the clouds -
A white cross Streaming across the sky, its feet
Like black leaves, its wings Like the stretching light of the river?
And did you feel it, in your heart, how it pertained to everything?
And have you too finally figured out what beauty is for?
And have you changed your life?
: Mary Oliver

Monday, March 2, 2015

Winter's Pruning


Among the blessings of winter, one stirs special gratitude within me. This is the season when Mother Nature generously reveals the elegant architecture of trees. Sturdy base roots to delicate, finger-thick branches, the magnificent artistry wrought in wood is laid bare.


I stand in awe, marveling at the sometime symmetrical, sometimes elaborate and complex spreading of branch over branch. Poetry in form, limb giving way seamlessly to limb like so many perfect words strung together in memorable meter. The uppermost branches touch the underbelly of the broad blue winter sky, linking heaven and earth. Near to earth, broad base gives way to a dense network of taproots that burrow deep into the soil, sourcing moisture, minerals, and organic material essential for healthy growth. Married with sunlight, these nutrients will grow green leaves, growth buds, and – in time – blossoms and fruit that delight our senses, nourish our bodies.  

Winter is also the time for pruning apple and pear trees, making careful cuts that encourage vitality and productivity. An alchemy of scientific technique and artful sculpting, skillful pruning promotes the maximum healthy, generative growth of abundant fruit for generations.

One recent bright February afternoon, I watched as Orin Martin, veteran Director of UC Santa Cruz's Alan Chadwick Garden, aggressively trimmed two- and three-year old apple, aprium, and pear trees. Systematically, with the trained hand of one accustomed to the task and the artist’s gift for simultaneous attention to big picture vision and laser-like focus in execution, he deftly severed and tossed aside 2" thick limbs from young, gangly trees standing just 5’ tall. He pruned away false leader limbs, which vied for the essential nutrients that would propel growth of a sturdy central trunk capable of sustaining rings of strong branches. To me, an empathetic tree lover, the castoff wood seemed essential to the tree's viability. He explained that the tree’s capacity to bear abundant and healthy fruit well into the future demanded that all of its energy be shunted toward productive growth - that it not waste nutrients on limbs that would ultimately not prove viable for fruit-bearing or those that would bloom out in directions that jeopardized the much grander endeavor of producing exquisite, delicious fruit for years and years. With bold cuts, he excised unproductive branching that resulted in vulnerability for the larger whole.

This winter, I feel I’m being somewhat brutally pruned. Tested. Cut to the core by larger, life-sized questions:  How do I want to grow? Can I remain rooted in the vision I hold for my work in the world, for my life? Can I allow for the removal - even when it's painful, harsh - of elements that don't serve me to realize my individual goals and my hopes for the wider world? Can I suffer through looking scraggly and awkward to outside observers for a season or two? Can I shiver under the frost or withstand the dry times rooted in the certainty that I know how to dig even deeper, know how to reach far within and source the energy I need for the longer haul because I’m intent on ultimately growing gloriously full and providing an abundant harvest year after year, both for myself and others?

Bare trees exist side by side with those trying on their spring attire in these dawning days of March:  tightly-wrapped bright green buds; hot pink flowers strung along thin branches like pearls; sloppily beautiful cream-colored magnolia flowers lolling open to the morning sun. Here and there, parrot tulips blaze in glory, frilly cherry-red edges rimming yolk-gold petals. An ancient lattice hung with pale yellow climber roses provides a feast for the senses. Regal calla lilies unfurl their linen white surfaces, bright white canvases of possibility. Bud by bud, a strand of lavender wisteria flowers blooms, cascading bountifully over a willing arbor. Songbirds ply the colorful landscape, lending their cheerful chatter to the chorus of new growth.

Transcendentalist writer Ralph Waldo Emerson counseled, “Adopt the pace of nature; her secret is patience." So I patiently wait for winter’s pruning to yield new growth. I sink my feet into the soft earth, sip the spring air through my nostrils, bend my neck back and let my face catch the sun. Soon, I know, the blooming will happen – then, the fruit will set, the harvest will come.