Category: contemplative life (Page 1 of 3)

It was just a little patch of jack pine and maybe some white pine too, a few brambles and sumac, the last remnants of a slightly larger bit of woods, the bulk of which was cut down a while ago to make way for two subdivisions of McMansion-style houses. But the little patch that was left after that initial devastation — the little patch on the corner of the road — was still something. Something to enjoy as we took our family walks down to the gyro restaurant. Something to enjoy as I took my twice-daily walking breaks while working from home. Something worth savoring, even if it was a meager smattering of trees.

Now, it’s being cut down.

I’m embarrassed, on some level, to confess that it bothers me this much to see these trees cut down. Why should a few pine trees matter? It wasn’t like some beautiful, ancient forest was being plowed to make a strip mall. These were just skinny, scrawny jack pines, not the Forest of Dean. To say this is a “they paved paradise and put up a parking lot” moment would be total overkill. They already destroyed much of the little woods several years ago. This was just a tiny remnant.

But I can’t help it, overkill or no. I enjoyed those trees. I imbibed those trees, from the wet piney smell on damp days to the way they shaded the ground beneath them on sweltering summer afternoons. Those trees hid squirrels and birds and so many dragonflies and butterflies, and they made the walks we took down the sidewalk just a little more pleasant, a little more wild.

I would often walk alone past the trees and the wildflowers that grew up around them, and the sumac and milkweed, and stare into the denseness of the undergrowth, and think and dream, projecting strange images into the shadows and brambles that populated that little patch of wilderness. It was a respite from the zooming cars on the other side of the road, the noise and the speed. The patch of trees absorbed all that and quieted things, and looked especially beautiful as the sun set behind it on wintery Saturday evenings, the pale pink and orange glow of the sky enveloping the thin browns and greens of pine needles and bare branches.

Now, all that’s gone.

A few more houses will be built, I’m sure. And I guess I don’t begrudge someone wanting to buy a house. I live in suburbia, so what should I expect, right?

But that doesn’t mean my heart can’t break a little. That doesn’t mean I can’t feel a lump in my throat when I look at all those trees, cut down to thin logs and stacked into neat little piles, and now the sky is too glaring and huge, with nothing to soften it, and the houses that’ll be built there will be built without any trees in the yard, so that the skyline will be nothing but triangle roofs and too-big houses on too-small lots.

I’m not against all development, but if we’re going to build new housing, why can’t we concentrate it in downtown districts? Why can’t we build multi-unit housing? Why can’t we leave these patches of trees alone?

I’m a hypocrite, of course, because I live in a single-family house and not in the downtown district. I’m a NIMBY, and I’m ashamed of it. Maybe my husband and I made a mistake in not trying to find housing in a more walkable neighborhood, in an apartment or townhouse or duplex or whatever. I think about that a lot and do sometimes regret our housing choice.

But the little bit of wilderness we once had by our house is now nearly gone. That little patch of trees was the last bit. And while the stream and wetlands that are also near that corner probably can’t be developed for environmental reasons (thank goodness!), they are a mere fragment of what was formerly there.

It’s not like we didn’t see this coming. We knew that land would be developed someday. And when it was — when that first bulldozing of the woods happened — we were sad. But a little patch of trees remained, and I’d sort of gotten used to it, thinking that at least that little patch would stick around for us to enjoy.

But I should’ve known better. If there’s land to develop, it will someday be developed, even something as meager as that smattering of pine trees. I’m sure whoever owns the lands, and whoever buys the houses, will be much happier with the trees gone, and what say do I have in it anyway? It’s not my land. It never was. Those were never my trees. But even if I never owned them, I knew them, and seeing them gone is like seeing a friend move away forever.

Just a little patch of trees. But they mattered, at least to me.

There’s one on the wall of my office right now. I hate trying to kill these gross insects because they’re so flipping fast when they move, and then when you do kill them, they basically disintegrate into a weird silvery smudge.

It’s gliding along the wall, going back and forth, trying to shimmy its way up the wooden molding, but I think it’s unable to do it for whatever reason. Maybe it’s legs aren’t strong enough.

I just looked them up, and it turns out silverfish eat paper, which means they can destroy books, and I have several piles of books on the floor of my office (taken from my old classroom), and I wonder: Do I need to worry about them? Can the silverfish really destroy my books? How many silverfish are gliding their way through my basement at this very moment?

It almost made it up the molding just now. I thought it was going to fall off the wall, its little body sort of dangling as it tried to clutch the molding and pull itself up. But it gave up and scooted back down onto the drywall.

That’s when I squashed it. With a book catalog that came in the mail today. It left a streak of silver on the back page, smudging a few words: the advertising copy for a new book.

I don’t feel bad about killing the silverfish, but I do feel bad that it never made it up the molding.

Kids were sick, so we stayed home and watched a lot of Hilda. I tried to read a couple of books but was too tired and ended up taking a nap. Tried to write in my notebook but only managed a page. Tried to find the will to do something — anything! — but found myself sinking back into the couch every chance I got.

At long last I roused myself to write a bit more in my notebook and then came down to the computer to write this blog.

I have blah days like this at least a couple of times a month (sometimes more). I’m tired, brain-fogged, out of gumption, and I wish I could do some work, but there’s just nothing left in the tank. These days are most likely tied to my cycle and I’m PMSing, but that doesn’t make them any easier. I wish I could get up and do something, but I’m just, well… blah.

I wish as a parent and adult, I could have more days where I’m allowed to be blah and just lay around watching TV and listening to music and doing nothing. I feel SO guilty about a day like today. What did I accomplish? Nothing.

(N.B.: I did write some fiction this morning in the early hours after waking. I’m trying to make this a thing, so I made sure to follow my new morning routine. So I did accomplish about 700 words.)

But why do I have to feel guilty about having a blah day? Are adults not allowed to spend a day doing nothing? Are parents not allowed to just veg on the couch with their kids for the afternoon?

Am I the only one who feels guilty for not having a more “productive” Saturday? Are other people having blah Saturdays and just not caring?

I wish I could be a not-caring type. I wish I could relish these blah days and go with the flow. I’m allowed to have a blah day. I’m allowed to spend my Saturdays doing nothing in particular. I wouldn’t want every Saturday to be like this, but a few every once in awhile is fine. Good, even.

The thing about the blah day is that it’s so slow and melancholy that it makes me start to think of all the stuff I could be doing if I had just a little more energy. And then I start making plans and looking forward to stuff, and pretty soon, a few days after the blah day, I’m back to normal and ready to get on with my work. So, if the blah day eventually helps me get back to my normal self, why shouldn’t I embrace it? Why shouldn’t I luxuriate in the blah day and accept it for what it is. It’s my body and mind telling me I need to rest, and that it’s okay to idle the whole day through.

There’s still some hours left before I need to go to sleep. Maybe I’ll spend them vegging on the couch or trying to read those books again. And if I happen to doze off, then all the better. That’s what blah days are for.