Garbage

The human species is the most complex, specialized and highly evolved of all living organisms, and as such, is completely dependent upon all other life forms that came before it. The irony in that is that it doesn't work the other way around, for no other life forms depend upon humans for their survival. No matter how superior we may think we are, we have essentially proceeded from all other forms of earthly life, and they were all here long before we were. I would go so far as to say that none of them would be all that traumatized were we to mysteriously drop out of the biological equation.

Yet no other species, however enlightened, is as capable of upsetting the ecological apple cart as humans, and nowhere is that more apparent than in the garbage we produce and that we seem to have no idea what to do with. No other living creature produces so many byproducts that nature cannot reassimilate to the extent that we do, and no other even comes close to the disrespect for the environment that humans are capable of.

No matter where I go, I see it. Be it on the lovely path at the bird sanctuary at Biddeford Pool or along the edges of the Mast Road in Lyman, the evidence that humans have passed this way is painfully evident in the form of all manner of detritus such as food wrappers, empty cans, and the infuriatingly ubiquitous cigarette butts. If there is such a thing as violence against nature, then this is surely one manifestation of it, and one that is so easily avoidable.

Many cities and towns regularly dispatch sweepers to clean their streets and roads, yet who is there to monitor the less-travelled paths and lanes? And isn't it, or shouldn't it be, incumbent upon each and every one of us to display a proper respect for nature by at least not asking her to dispose of our garbage, too? Yes, certain things do disappear into the soil given enough time, but the best nature can do in most cases is to wait until enough autumn leaves have fallen to cover the unsightliness of objects that simply do not belong there.

I've been just as guilty myself in the past of rolling down my car window and tossing out a gum wrapper or a used tissue. But as I sat in my car on Main Street in Biddeford recently waiting for a friend who was on an errand, I noticed a man walking along with a long-handled grabber, picking trash up along the sidewalks and depositing it into a bag he carried. It occurred to me that the visible trash, of the sort that clogs our streets and drains, is considered more of an eyesore and an affront, and so it must be quickly disposed of. But conversely, it seems that the old "out of sight, out of mind" maxim applies to the less frequented by-ways where it seems less of an transgression to crush a cigarette out or toss a granola bar wrapper because fewer people are likely to see it. Yet are we doing our environment less of an injustice because no one is likely to make a fuss?

I feel one should be made, as it is very unpleasant to walk along the roads less taken, absorbing the beauty of a grass carpet dotted with wildflowers only to glance down and spot something completely incongruous and that spoils the view. If we are to smugly claim the honor of being the most civilized species, then shouldn't we act the part as well where our Earth is concerned, consider our origins and stop this needless desecration of our surroundings?

There are places for trash, and the seaside, roadways, fields and secluded woodland paths are not among them. While many of us are trying harder to recycle and to be more careful about how we dispose of our trash, we can't stop there. We must become the species that not only takes freely from the Earth and from nature but gives back to them as well, not in the form of garbage but in one of respect and a passionate unwillingness to defile their sacred beauty.


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Late Summer Musings (First in the Series of Summer Essays)

The afternoon light has grown decidedly different once again, penetrating these woods at a slightly different angle from mere days ago. It dances on the low pine branches earlier now, and bathes the low-hanging leaves of the witch hazel as it sinks behind the taller trees.

The cricket’s music has replaced that of the wood and hermit thrushes that never stay much beyond the end of July, and owls are dominating the night woods again. They regaled me one night last week with a full-blown hooted conversation that went on for several minutes until the participants decided to move deeper into the shadows where I couldn’t hear them anymore. I lay awake awhile listening, but all I heard was a dog barking.

I have always enjoyed the sound of a dog barking from a distance at night. I am somehow comforted while going to sleep knowing that someone’s faithful pet is out there alert to the sounds and smells and also to any danger that might be lurking. That same alertness is to be found in another creature as well, and one that most people would least expect.

Several years ago, I was sitting in front of the fire with a book when I heard crows cawing close by. That’s a common sound here, so I paid it no mind. After a few more minutes, though, I realized that their cries had intensified and that other crows had joined in the chorus. Their cawing was now at a higher pitch and more frantic, so I got up to look outside. I reached the window just in time to see a large fisher run across the yard under some trees not 40 feet from my front door. It scooted across the rock wall that divides my property from my neighbor’s and disappeared into the woods.

I noticed then that the crows had stopped and had flown away, and I realized that they had been tracking that fisher on its way through the woods. In a very real way, those crows had assumed the role of sentinels, their uncharacteristically high-pitched cawing their way of sounding the alarm that an intruder was lurking.

I had the same experience again just a few weeks ago, but this time, a coyote skulked through in exactly the same spot the fisher had. Like the fisher, it had disturbed the crows’ peace, and they were once again frantic to let someone know. A bit of research revealed that crows actually band together to intimidate intruders, which was surely what these crows had been doing as well.

And so it goes in these Lyman woods, not that far from the beaten paths that lead to busier places. Each day brings new wonders, new sounds, new smells, new simple truths to learn, and all that is asked of me is that I be cognizant and open to it, not judging, but simply accepting a way of life that was here before I was.

Today, one of my cats scurried off into the low brush and made quite a noise in the process. She’d disturbed something, so I went off to see what it was. Through the low branches, a small flock of turkey hens were making their way toward the deeper woods. I watched them for a moment, and like my cat, gave them wide berth and headed home.

Tonight, I’ll listen again for owls. Raccoons will most likely visit the back porch and leave their muddy paw prints across the picnic table. And maybe, with any luck, that dog will bark in the distance, letting me know that all is well in these dark and wondrous woods.


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Introduction

A few years ago, I'd started another blog on a platform whose workings I just could not understand or work around. After awhile, I got very frustrated with it, and just abandoned it. But I have always wanted to start another one through which I could share my weekly newspaper columns with individuals who don't have access to that publication--the Journal Tribune. Unfortunately, online readers no longer have the option of reading the JT without first purchasing a subscription. So using it as a reference for my work is pretty much useless if interested parties can't get to them to read them. So that's the point of this blog--to get those essays out there--all four years' worth of them, not so much for the oohs and aahs they might generate, but more to keep people connected to nature, where it all began.
 




And that's why I started writing those articles in the first place--to honor nature by keeping her alive in the hearts and minds of as many people as I could reach with them. I think I've done that, judging by some of the emails of support I've gotten since I submitted the first ones back in the fall of 2010. It will take awhile to get them uploaded to this blog, but I will attempt to start from the beginning, and list the essays by season, which is how I have them filed away on my desk-top.






I hope they are as relevant now as when I first wrote them, but I suspect they will be. Because nature, and whatever we can say about her, is nothing if not always relevant and as much a part of our lives now as she has ever been.


Note to the reader: When I began writing these essays, I was living in a spot that was the realization of a life-long dream for me...an old mobile home on a small hill tucked into the woods of Lyman, Maine, near Swan Pond. I was to live there for 13 years before circumstances compelled me (foolishly, as I have come to realize) to sell it and move to what I hoped would be an easier lifestyle fraught with fewer worries. In so doing, however, I sacrificed the peace, beauty and serenity that I had so long cherished, and I ended up in a place smack-dab in the heart of a small busy town that was totally out of character for me. Now here I am back in Lyman, Maine, living in an apartment overlooking Wadleigh Pond. And while I have not reclaimed my sense of ownership, I have reacquired here much of the serenity and autonomy that I had in my own place. Ironically, I am just several miles from there, a fact which caused me some grief in the beginning. But I've come to love this place and to renew my special relationship with nature that I never truly abandoned.


While I composed these essays from three separate locations over the last four years, they all have one thing in common--words that sprang from my heart--one that was never at any moment very far from home.


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