Every year, usually in early July, a columbine appears next to the front deck of the cabin (right). I had seen its leaves in late June and wondered if the otherwise lush plant would flower after weeks of almost no rain. It did but at only about half to one-third its normal size (below). In this time of drought and heat, I see how nature survives: by shrinking back, doing what it needs to do to maintain but not able to grow or thrive.
The grasses around the cabin are about half as tall as in years of plentiful moisture. In the valley bottom, where there is no shade, the grasses have already gone brown. In years past, they’ve stayed green through August, at least. On the younger aspens, the branches are drooping, and many of the branches on the conifers are dying—their needles turning brown and dropping off. Flowers that usually bloom later in the summer, like the purple asters, are flowering now, as if the lack of precipitation has triggered some survival mechanism: bloom while you can because you don’t know if the situation will be any better next month.
In the past few years, a few aspens have started to grow in a somewhat dry area between my and my neighbors’ cabins (right). I’ve tried to encourage that growth as a small but natural privacy screen between us. The tallest aspen appears to have established a strong enough root system to survive, but the younger ones are limp, like they’re struggling to stay upright. With almost no moisture for at least three weeks and record-breaking heat, I’ve been watering the young trees in the hopes they’ll survive.
Because I have no plumbing at the cabin, watering means using the hand pump behind the cabin to fill a bucket and then carrying it to each tree. Needless to say, it’s labor intensive, and there are probably 50 trees, many of them aspens, on the property. All summer long I’ve been keeping my eye on them while studying the weather forecasts for any promise of precipitation. Occasionally, I'll invoke the weather gods, but to no avail. I’ve tried to rationalize the situation: nature knows how to take care of itself, how to conserve water and store it in wetter times.
But this weather is not normal. In past years at the cabin, the hottest temperatures in the summer were in the 70s during the day, and that usually cooled down into the 40s at night. But now daytime temperatures hover in the 80s, with night-time temperatures lingering in the 60s.
I feel helpless watching the plants struggle (above, like these aspen saplings), just like I feel helpless viewing the state of world affairs. I can’t do anything to help separated immigrant families or prevent any more orcas from dying in the Northwest seas. But I can start watering my thirsty aspens and ponderosas—pail by pail.
Call it a labor of love or a futile gesture. But I can’t just sit and do nothing.
What a heartbreaking report, Kathy—yet also inspiring. Like you, I often feel helpless and despairing about the fate of our gorgeous, generous planet. And like you, I make the few gestures available to me. I like to think that the Earth recognizes and appreciates the spirit, or the energy, or whatever unquantifiable force of the heart brings that water to those struggling aspens. And that the shower water I collect to flush the toilet somehow eventually goes back to the water table with some subtle message of solidarity, support, and heartfelt remorse. A friend of mine recently remarked that "we are all part of the continuum that is the sum of human greed." Certainly, I drive a car, fly in airplanes, use and discard plastic with just about everything I buy. Yet in Buddhism, intention counts for something. I don't think it mitigates my transgressions, but I do believe that my gratitude to and respect for the natural world, like yours, contributes in some way to a saner and more workable planetary movement. For what it's worth …
Posted by: Jennifer Woodhull | July 21, 2018 at 08:35 PM
Jennifer, I've been thinking along the same lines. The quote about our human greed resonates with me, as it's obvious that climate change is the fruition of centuries of human greed.
Like you, I like to think that any gesture of compassion, no matter how small, is helpful.
Posted by: Kathy Kaiser | July 23, 2018 at 09:48 AM