Control is a drug, and we are all hooked, whether or not we believe in the prosperity gospel’s assurance that we can master the future with our words and attitudes. (84) Everything Happens For a Reason by Kate BowlerWe ponder each word, aim high, strive for both music and meaning. We know that one is nothing without the other. But we are not in control, and perhaps the silence, solitude, mug, and pen are our way of dealing with the fact that we are not masters of any universe
—not even the universe of our own creation (144)
Still Writing by Dani Shapiro
All around trees have fallen: in our own five acre wooded lot, on the car parked in the driveway of a house outside the high school that we pass each day (although the car is totaled, thankfully no one appears to have been hurt), and even in the neighbor's yard where chainsaws have been droning on all day, felling perfectly healthy trees of immense stature to make way for the planting of grass. Can you hear the frustration in my voice?
Don't get me wrong, I completely understand the mess our woods cause as seen in full measure after the last storm. Trees of wide girth have grown in our small neighborhood for perhaps 100 years and shed amply when the wind whistles to litter twigs, bark and branches of all sizes and shapes haphazardly far and wide. I will be cleaning the mess for weeks and certainly can see the ease a well manicured, grassy landscape conjures.
Consequently, you could imagine me bending and gathering and lugging the unwanted offerings of our small stand of trees day by day, contemplating the notion of control, an insidious human nemesis. Our attraction to manicured, grassy lawns is simply an example of our obsession with controlling nature gone awry. When we remove the vegetation nature itself planted with great wisdom to plant grass seed, our folly is twofold. First, we end up in a vicious cycle of water, fertilizing, and cutting, three tasks that take a heavy toll on natural resources. Second, we tamper with an ecosystem so complex both above and below ground level that we are only beginning to understand its brilliance.
[As an aside, here are a few reads that explore our evolving understanding of nature:
[As an aside, here are a few reads that explore our evolving understanding of nature:
- The Hidden Life of Trees by Peter Wohlleben
- Planting in a Post-Wild World by Thomas Rainer and Claudia West
- Let Your Winter Garden Go Wild by Margaret Renkl (NYT, Sunday, February 11, 2018)]
A grassy lawn also graces NARA House. Although I certainly do not want to remove all of it, I do hope that we can reduce its presence on our property. As I garden and plan our landscape, my mantra, to my father's chagrin, is "managed chaos." Rather than taming the land and bending its will to my personal regimented, postage stamp notions, I hope to get to know the land over time, to work with its bones and enhance its natural beauty, and to engage in a relationship both productive and rewarding to both parties.
In essence, I want to try to control the land less and appreciate the property's strengths and weaknesses more. Just as I am working through my thoughts on control with this very post, I also recognize that I don't control this universe, not even five acres within its vastness. Just as I have learned as a parent I cannot control my children, I am going to try to guide and nurture my garden as another offspring. Just as I must let go of life one day, I must also let go of the notion that I alone own this land that is ruled by its own laws and tolerates its own share of freeloading weeds and invasive plants.
Overall, I think we are all trying to be good stewards of our lot in life, trying to find the right balance of letting go and taking charge. I once had a parent of one of my students share with me her linen closet. It was a marvel of perfection: sheets were crisply ironed and uniformly folded, bedding was organized by mattress size and season, and towels were stacked high with exacting precision. I had never seen anything like it. Its creator admitted that this was her oasis: in the midst of a life that was often chaotic, demanding, and unruly, she could open the linen closet doors and find respite -- a place she could control which, in turn, calmed her spirit just as she chased a life which felt, day in and day out, far beyond the reach of her best self.
I can relate and, perhaps, my neighbor can, too. I certainly have my own anal-retentive tendencies and struggle to let go of control, but the more I do, the more my spirit is freed. Just as the trees shed parts of themselves in the storm and let more sun through for new growth to happen elsewhere, I am reminded that I also need to loosen my grip and surrender more. I have a hard enough time managing myself much less nature or anyone else. As a result, the more I let go of control, the more I let go of fear. The more I let go of fear, the more I relax. The more I relax, the more I allow space for new growth to happen within myself, too. Although I can't control its exact arrival, I can say with gratitude that spring certainly may be at hand in more ways than one.
Folding My Clothes
Julia Alvarez
Tenderly she would
take them down and fold
the arms in and fold again where my back
should go until she made a small
tight square of my chest, a knot of socks
where my feet blossomed into toes,
a stack of denim from the waist down,
my panties strictly packed into the size
of handkerchiefs on which no trace
of tears showed. All of me under control.
the arms in and fold again where my back
should go until she made a small
tight square of my chest, a knot of socks
where my feet blossomed into toes,
a stack of denim from the waist down,
my panties strictly packed into the size
of handkerchiefs on which no trace
of tears showed. All of me under control.
But there was
tenderness, the careful matching
of arm to arm, the smoothing of wrinkles,
every button buttoned on the checkered blouse
I disobeyed in. There was sweet order
in those scented drawers, party dresses
perfect as pictures in the back of the closet—
until I put them on, breathing life back
into those abstract shapes of who I was
which she found so much easier to love.
of arm to arm, the smoothing of wrinkles,
every button buttoned on the checkered blouse
I disobeyed in. There was sweet order
in those scented drawers, party dresses
perfect as pictures in the back of the closet—
until I put them on, breathing life back
into those abstract shapes of who I was
which she found so much easier to love.
