Beyond the bay window, night wanes.
God, behind the scenes, is producing this unused, never-before-seen, free-for-the-living day:
“Light, on your mark . . . good, very good . . . fade in sky and fields.”
(And to the mist) “Ready? Get rolling!”
For the first time in 25 years I clearly see Mt. Spokane from my place at our table. It rises, cool and distant, the stone-washed blue of rain over a lake.
Recently felled trees exposed this view, a vista I want to claim. Can a human own a view?
With the silent hoist of invisible pulleys, up comes the sun. I stroll up the driveway and witness washes of color altering landscape. I pass the fallen bodies of giants.
The news
Our trees are dying. In a word: beetles.
We sought advice from experts. Here’s who weighed in.
- Spokane County Extension fire inspector
- District 4 Fire Department
- Department of National Resources
- Thinning contractors
Restoring our woods will cost an arm and a leg—actually, unnumbered limbs. Trunks, too. Many exceed the jaws of the chipper, and debris must be burned ASAP, or trucked away, to avoid worse infestation. Survivors need to be thinned and lopped of dead growth, 12′ from the ground.
Trunk girths indicate no one has tended these woods. Nor have we. We’ve loved them but left them wild. Until now.
But the hours. The expense. The labor. It’s overwhelming.
And yet
I see the mountain. See it from the place I study and pray. Modest in size, it’s still a mountain.
My view through the gap left behind by death makes me think of Good Friday. And visions. Kernels of wheat. Who but God would conceive such a process—downfall and disease ushering in unforeseen beauty. Surprise.
Yes, we are facing loss. And cost. And something more.
Have you read this famous haiku by Mizuta Masahide?
Since my house burned down
I now own a better view
of the rising moon
Looking back, looking ahead
We moved here after re-affirming our marriage vows. Things had been crashing down around us and friends sensed our need, prayed us through the pain. We know about doing hard things.
Now it’s time again to “own a better view.” At least, metaphorically. Ancient Israel lost her great forests to marauding enemies. Yet scripture also describes the trees rejoicing.
We will care for our little forest. We’ll watch for each view that opens up, even as trees go down.
Some scientists now believe bark beetles can hear the sound of imploding tissue in drought-stressed trees. Native people have likely always known this, as evidenced by this quote from a Pueblo Indian elder.
The beetles come when the trees begin to cry.
Who, or what, in your life cries out for tending? Is there a new way to view this?
Oh friends, I loved your forest and all the shadowy wonder there. I cry with the trees for all that the drought has cost you both. We watchers stand on the edge of your woods as you lay bare the path you are being asked to walk, longing to bring you rain. But, and again….there is a river of life that springs out of you, somehow even more so in times of trouble….and you so graciously bid us to come and drink its sweetness with you. Thank you, dear psalmist.
Katherine, your empathy comes right through the screen. Things look so different out here these days. Thanks for the kindly rain of your words. Thanks for thinking of me as a psalmist. Humbling and heartening, both.
Bill was gone the week the contractors came with chainsaw and uber-Bobcat, but my sister was with me. The latest post describes the “felling.”
So grateful for your understanding, dear friend.
I love this post, Laurie, and the haiku is such a blessing. Thank you for this beautiful reminder that loss can also bring new vision and opportunity. Well said.
April, what a pleasure to hear from you today! That haiku is a stunner. I first heard it just after graduating from college and never forgot it. It was a video of a well-known storyteller (whose name escapes me now) who spoke it slowly with equally eloquent gestures and demeanor. Wisdom to hold for always.
Laurie, you have given us another gorgeous metaphor to connect our own life cycles to the examples God has given us in nature. How awesome to see such a vision on the horizon, beyond the decaying forest in front of you! But the paring away, the tending, is never an easy process. Thank you for the inspiration to day that I will carry through my week. 🙂
PS I love the architecture of trees, and find myself thinking of you when I see a unique design!
I consider that a high compliment! Thank you!
Michelle, so lovely to see you here with your encouraging words. “Paring away” strikes me as an excellent phrase to hold close when they start felling our trees in earnest. For me, it scales down the violence of the work to the homely goodness of cutting apples for pie. Because there’s bound to be a sweet ending to all of this, somewhere, somehow. New views. Healthier trees remaining, less fire and windstorm hazards. Now I want a piece of pie, lol.
Lovely word, Laurie. You weave magic into scenes of death. Maybe we all die a little each day? To ourselves. To the life we anticipated. To our own way. And each loosening of grip makes us see the freedom of drifting closer to the things that really matter. If I may take a leaf out of the esteemed haiku master above:
Since my body caved
I now own a better view
of the grace He gave
I’ve often found that personal loss, grief and death are precursors to new life, albeit an unseen inner flowering sometimes. Thank you for your gentle gift of words that weave a spell over me every time I read them. Blessings. <3
Joy, thank you! As ever, you express the little deaths along the way that so easily sideline, or even paralyze us. And then show the flip side with its glint of silver. Your life and words demonstrate the goodness of God who leads us toward what counts. Your haiku is potent, dear friend. Here’s to our ever-loosening grip on all that impedes God’s love and purposes.
What a wonderful way you have of seeing past the immediate pain and loss. So sorry for the loss of your trees, but prayers for your moving forward into the new space they have left for you.
Lou, what a lovely response. Thank you for your prayers. Perhaps I’ll do a post later this summer, at sunset, displaying my new view. Thank you for reminding me to keep focused on what will be revealed!
Amen, Laurie.
Thanks, Jeanette. Blessings on you this day! So grateful for your time in reading.
Oh, so beautiful….owning the view and the thoughts behind the loss/death of one thing leading to the birth of something new.
My body is certainly decaying in a frightful way and for the fist time ever I have to deal with that (so proud have I been of my good health and fitness. Sigh).
I’ve been worrying my prayers about what this might mean for the future and all I hear God say is, “trust me in this.”
That’s all.
I can’t see the view from here, yet.
Jody, I think it’s waaaay harder when it’s our bodies that are changing. I am standing with you in faith for grace in whatever your new view will include and be. Believing there will be goodness found. And saluting your trust. I have been pondering these words by Christine Valters Paintner today: “What if when life started falling apart [we considered our grief and fear] as holy guides and windows into the immensity of God? What if all the painful feelings of loss and disorientation were invited in for tea? … we may be ready to see the things which enter our lives and lead us to unfamiliar places as an essential part of our own unfolding.” Off to heat the kettle . . . 🙂