Walking with Oaks 2
Pine Valley Creek, May 9 2020, 40”x70”
On Saturday, May 9, I returned to Pine Valley Creek. It was my first trip away from my home since my last visit just as the stay at home order was being put into place. During the two-month interval, while confining my walks to places that I could reach on foot, the images of these dying oaks and the contemplation of what they had to teach, the revelation of the similarities of the pandemics effecting the oaks and humanity, permeated my being. It was still winter during my previous visit, although a few flowers were peeking through the grass in the meadow. I longed to go back, to see the full force of a very wet spring. Already May, I was worried that I’d waited too long. Nonetheless, I drove with a certain hesitation. Parks had been reopened. But even if I was still on the same tank of gas as my trip from two months earlier, I couldn’t help but wonder if I was indulgent leaving home. The signs on the freeway didn’t help: “Stay at home, Save lives.”
When I arrived at Pine Valley, I couldn’t believe my eyes. The trees were covered with clumps of tiny yellow flowers. Unlike the large lobed leaves of their deciduous cousins that live in the mountains or eastern US, coastal live oaks are characterized by small, thick ovular leaves. The leaves are hard to the touch, with tiny spines along the edges coming out from each vein. But now, long catkins, two, maybe three inches in length, each packed with tiny flowers revealing a cluster of stamens hung from all of the leafy branches. At the tips of the tiny stems, atop the cluster of pendulous catkins were whorls of tiny crimson leaves. It was as if the tree had been decorated with a bunch of yellow streamers hanging from red bows.
I kept walking, marveling at the sight of one tree after another bathed in this profusion of softness. It was as if all of the trees were decked with lace. I had seen trees blooming in previous years, but never anything like this. The profusion of flowers, the utter abundance of blooms gracing every living tree was astounding. Some of the trees seemed more pinkish than yellow. Getting closer, in these trees the flowers were mostly gone but instead the trees were decked with whorls of tiny pink/crimson leaves at the end of each branch.
It wasn’t just the oaks. On my previous visit, the branches of the willows lining the creek were bare, some with tiny leaf buds. Now some willows were bathed in yellow. Many more were covered with a puffy whiteness. The hillside across the creek was dotted with the purple blooms of ceanothus. Along the trails I came across patches of purple larkspur, Red Indian Paintbrush, scarlet gilia, pink mallows, lupines just beginning to bud, white sage and so much more—spring in all its glory.
When I started investigating tree loss years ago, Pine Valley was one of the first places I visited. Year after year I came to Pine Valley Creek to bear witness, to grieve as ever increasing numbers of trees succumbed to the Goldspotted oak borer. My first invitations for people to walk here with me, were invitations to join in public mourning. I shared how important it was to allow grief, to feel the sorrow of loss, to trust that sorrow is an opening to feeling, an antidote to paralysis and numbness.
Opening the heart to grief, is also an opening to love, to caring deeply about the object of loss. As I walked marveling at the sight of these few living oaks, tears came to my eyes, but they were tears of being deeply moved, tears of joy. It was as if these oaks were giving me an incredible gift, as if the world was saying look, look what’s possible, look in wonder, allow yourself the pleasure of wonder.
Having spent the last two months contemplating all of the dying trees, I wondered what to make of this baroque profusion. Maybe these blossoms were a reminder of the life force that can burst forth when humans withdraw. Certainly, the air was cleaner over the last few months as many stayed at home. Maybe this was some kind of last hurrah, the trees putting all of their available energy into reproductive efforts. Maybe everything seemed more vivid, more fantastic, because I’d spent the last two months indoors. Or maybe I simply hadn’t looked so carefully before. The oaks trees near my home didn’t bloom this year. But I don’t think I noticed all of the scrub oaks flowering in the canyons on my daily walks until after this trip to Pine Valley Creek. Maybe I simply hadn’t looked so carefully before.
Whatever the case, I left this trip with the gift of profusion and delight, my heart opening wide to meet the brilliance before my eyes.
Since this trip in May, as I contemplated the profusion of spring, it’s as if the whole world has cracked open. How many times has the cry come, no more, and then there is yet another senseless shooting, another senseless act of violence? After this long time of being locked away, after the repeated blatant disregard for human life, the cry was loud and clear. “Black lives matter.” “Silence is violence!” Look! Listen! Feel! Don’t look away! Don’t think it is someone else’s life, someone else’s community, someone else’s suffering. There are no excuses. These killings are not “mistakes” but the result of centuries of white supremacy! No more mothers crying in the night! No rationalizations! No more! White supremacy hurts everyone… The world is bursting open…
My contemplative practice turns towards the words of Buddhist teacher Rev angel Kyoto williams. Speaking of love, she writes that “the entirety of our descended culture suffers from a severely atrophied relationship to the most animating, enlivening, equalizing force gifted to the human experience.” How else she asks could those with skin privilege live in proximity or participate in slavery, lynchings, Jim Crow entitlements, massive incarcerations and more?
I thank the oaks, these trees of life. Now is a time to look, to listen, to pay attention. A time for a crazy, passionate love bursting forth from this time of pause. The flowering trees and the fires illuminating the streets are demanding a deep look at the legacy of colonialism and imperialism that are at the roots of racial injustice as well as the pandemics plaguing trees and humans alike. Now is a time for love. Now is a time for those of us not native to these lands to face the impact of the legacies that carried our ancestors to these shores.
I thank the oaks, these trees of life. These trees that sustained indigenous peoples for thousands of years. These trees that endured the disappearance of the native grasses that grew in their shade, the cattle that trampled the ground and nibbled new seedlings , the rope burns as their limbs were used to perpetrate unspeakable violence. I thank the oaks, these trees of life. May our hearts crack open in love as we are showered with their flowers.
For more images see: Oaks at Pine Creek