Opening the Door to New Worlds

The air is warm, finally. The iciness of winter, that wasn't even a difficult winter, is over. Fan air swirls around my feet. We close our windows very rarely in the summer; it's just too much of a cutting off from the real world to be shut inside for the couple of months of warmth before the cold settles back in.

A spatterdock darner dragonfly visited one morning that was much cooler than now and they hung from the jade plant, back oriented east, soaking up the warmth. I sat in the chair on the right and did the exact same thing. 

Through the open windows, I hear the house wren nestlings begging for more food. The common yellowthroats and indigo buntings sing mightily from the shrubby thickets and meadows of goldenrods and fleabanes. The gray catbirds call and splash around in the stone bird bath and feast on the wild raspberries. We are lucky to eat a few here and there.

These thickets of plants and their edges are where we find the most diverse life. We work to emulate the excellent nesting structure of multiflora rose with the native climbing rose and interwoven shrubs. 

An incredible rain system found us on June 6 and this land slurped up 4 inches of rain. The soil saturated, the vernal pool and frog pond filled and the plants grew. It was magnificent! Now we are ready for more.

The heat and humidity wrap us all in warmth and moisture and the fireflies rest everywhere during the day. Steve and I watch from our open windows at night or we walk barefoot out onto the dry soil and feel the bite of the mosquitoes and observe the magic of thousands of flashing, bioluminescent lights. Everywhere. Tree tops. Shrubs. Tall grasses. We don't really know what to make of it so we just watch and witness other lives, living their lives.

If we had any question whether this land is a moist land, the moisture loving sedges confirm it in their reappearance and establishment. They are abundant here and we feel lucky to live with them.

The old 1970 camper we bought is serving its purpose at Persimmon South in Highland County, OH, allowing us to get to know another piece of land asking for a bit of tending. 

Persimmon South also offers access to many nature preserves that are maintained by incredible humans; we feel lucky to be part of this community. A box turtle laid her eggs on the side of the trail as we walked by. Upon returning 2.5 miles later, she was done and out and about doing her thing. We were so excited to witness a part of her life!

These lands protect so many nonhuman lives and offer strong holds for uncommon plants like American ginseng and green dragon.  

We find as we explore the 10.2 acres we purchased, that the plant growth is mighty and lush and much of our exploration will wait until the plant growth senesces. We are used to walking through tall plants and bushwhacking, but this feels like an intrusion here and unnecessary at this time. Many birds are nesting; insects are eating and growing and tending families; box turtles are eating and laying eggs. They are used to privacy in this land and we will keep it so during this time of intense growth and activity. 

We will get to work building a small, sustainable woodland path this winter, when the air is cool and the plant growth is minimal. We will follow the contours of the land and the well laid out path from the deer. We will stop mowing where butterflyweed wants to grow and we will work on removing invasive plants that are harming diversity promoting native plants. We will do this two places this winter. It will be an interesting balance, but it will work our bodies and get us outdoors. That's really what we live for. It's really where our hearts are. Outdoors. In nature. Moving our bodies.

We are one month away from accomplishing Steve's birthday hiking challenge that began in February. He said, "How about a hiking goal? A monthly hiking goal? We will start with 50 miles hiked for February and add 10 miles per month until we culminate with 100 miles hiked in July. Daily activity does not count." I, of course, was in from the first sentence. This is a celebration of the ability of our bodies to move. Not without pain. Not without limping or sweating or hurting. Sometimes not even having fun. But it's a goal, because we can and we should and so we go forward with happiness and gratitude and pride that we can do this. 

Black cohosh will flower soon. Daily I offer water to the ones we tend on this 3.5 acres, but we revel in the old and wise black cohoshes on our weekly hikes. We admire these tall plants and their resiliency. Not all native forest plants are as strong as this one or maybe this one is just in a place where it is strong. As always, we have much to learn. We watched Appalachian azures laying eggs on black cohosh, their host plant. I almost passed them by because they were first flitting around wingstem and I assumed, incorrectly, they were summer azures. My eyes kept flitting back to those fluttering butterflies though. 7 individuals flying around in the dappled light. My brain recognized something I didn't in that moment and it all clicked. I love this plant. The Appalachian azures love this plant. 

The gray treefrog offering cheer at the end of a 15 mile hike loves this plant. 

At the end of these days, we arrive back to an empty parking lot. Free of humans, but full of nonhuman life. The wood peewees sing from all parts of this mighty forest. I felt congratulated by the plume moth clinging to my door, in using my body the way they use theirs. Driving always feels a bit like cheating to me and it's not a challenge we've figured out. We drive a lot and arriving home...

to a rewilded piece of land, I dream of the day when humans open the door to new worlds of sharing space and and having trails of one sort or another everywhere - linking landscape to landscape, place to place, community to community - offering us humans the chance to play fair and to use our bodies for what they are made to do. 

Oh my gosh, Fruition!

Fruition is on my mind lately as I observe this 3.5 acres after almost 14 years of restoration and watching the nonhuman lives return. Our hearts truly beat faster, recognizing what is happening here; what sharing space gives nonhuman lives and what they give us. It seems too good to be true...that there is hope, that there is action that leads to this hope. Can we laugh or yell or smile too-big together?! If we were together I think I would rush around and hug every last one of you and perhaps we might even jump up and down!

Vernal witch-hazel, Hamamelis vernalis, offers the most seductive, intoxicating scent I've yet experienced in my 45 years of life. I think Steve would agree, but I am writing so I will use my age. He looks my age anyways, so why not? I can't not walk by these blooms and inhale. Sometimes the fragrance wafts west, sometimes north, always carried by the winds of the day. North is when I can't forget they are there because the trail passes by. I walk by, I have things on my mind to go and do and then the plant re-commands my mind. It is suddenly the most important part of my day. The blooms tell me they are there and they have something to give. I go inhale and inhale and inhale. I even start to smile. Sometimes I choke up and shed a tear or two. The joy and awe is that real! When I am deep in the plant inhaling, I notice the small bodied invertebrates eating and how they spend the night tucked into the blooms. I wonder what it might be like to tuck myself into a bloom of riches like that? 

Common hazelnut, Corylus americana, blooms and fruits in the circle drive and did so in February. Steve found many pieces of hazelnut shell tucked into the wood pile this winter; all the husks were chewed into and the tasty nut was gone, making another life anew, offering winter sustenance and an assurance to survive another day. Death may come, but not by starvation. I held the nut shells in my hand and I felt the power in those nuts. We have big plans for hazelnut and of course it involves planting many, many, many more. 

The male catkins adorn the hazelnut and shed their pollen..

wind blown to the receptive female flowers. It's a challenging time of year when temperatures are cold then warm then cold then warm to rely on cold-blooded insects for pollination. I lay in the sun on the days when the sun is out and always I think of the invertebrates and the reptiles and the amphibians. Powered not by warm blood, but by warm sun or warm temperatures. Fueled by warmth, I feel kinship and I feel deep respect.

Part of our land tending is thinning abundant staghorn sumac here and there to allow diversity to thrive. The sumac stalks needed thinned and we needed a protective fence for chard and beet greens so we made a dead hedge. Two tasks accomplished with nothing purchased; that's the kind of labor we enjoy! The dead hedge made out of soft pithed sumac will offer many nesting sites for native bees and we look forward to watching their excavations and contentment at finding shelter for their young.

Sunny days invite us outdoors and so we unearth buried pots of American persimmons and planted cuttings of elderberry. The elderberry cuttings came from trimmings of a plant overhanging the path by a lot. Half of the unearthed persimmon bareroots are tiny and were sorted out by me and placed in the compost pile by Steve, buried even so I couldn't see them. I thought of them all night during my sleepless hours and woke to tell Steve we better plant some of them. He didn't disagree and seemed quite ready to unearth their potential once again. He soaked them all day to rehydrate their roots. I stuck them as a very large bunch into soil to keep their roots safe until warmer months arrive. 

Our first American toad observation happened right in the area we walked unearthing plants, planting plants and building the dead hedge. Steve saw them first and freaked out for almost stepping on them. He marked their location so as we worked we could be mindful. All day we worked on the sumac dead hedge and checked on the toad. The toad eventually dug themself a very nice divot into the earth and rested till dark. The next day we checked and they were gone. The night they left was warm and moist. Did they go to the pond? To another spot to tuck themselves back into an earthen chamber to wait for more consistent warmth? I sat down next to their empty hole and I stuck my fingers in there. The soil was loose, but with structure, cool, but warm. I rested with my fingers in there and thought about this toad with a whole entire life that is theirs and not mine.

A brown thrasher spent the first part of winter here; our last sighting was the very end of February when the temperatures warmed and the birds transitioned. For a few days no dark-eyed juncos, white-throated sparrows or tree sparrows were here. The red-winged blackbirds and rusty blackbirds moved on. The fox sparrows arrived a few days later with more juncos, more white-throated sparrows. The thrasher must have left when the birds felt the call to push on. It was bittersweet to say goodbye, but this land that wants to hold life, offered sustenance to a bird that usually doesn't winter here. The fruits and seeds we laid our hopes and dreams on came to fruition. Others still have yet to come to fruition, but they are growing and they tell us they are working on it. To give them time and space. Time. Time. Time. Space. Space. Space. 

While the weather swung back and forth and birds came and went, Steve worked on the Countess in preparation for our seasonal habitation at Persimmon South. This field station will offer us access to more areas to explore, more land to tend. The space is small and mostly furnished with material goods we already had. It's a funny thing, being able to make a second space to live out of with things we already have. We spent a weekend there not too long ago working on cutting in our first trail. It's so very exciting! This trail will offer us a place to walk and tend without smashing little ones under our feet. We worked on the north facing slope first because we are planning on planting back all those woodland plants that should be there and that will thrive there, but that aren't there for many reasons. I can hardly think of anything else right now other than those woodland plants. Susan Leopold of United Plant Savers (one of our most favorite nonprofits!!) and Lyla June both presented talks and commented how it's almost as if or is that many of these plants need us humans. They need our tending. They did evolve with us. How can it be any other way? This adjustment in our thinking is changing everything. There will be much more on this in the future via our videos and writings, I am certain.

Hiking miles with Steve, immersing ourselves in nature, is where we regenerate. It gives us something to give. Hiking gives us body movement, space, observation of many other beautiful lives. Hiking brings to fruition our dreams in the cleansing and clarity always offered. It always brings us outside ourselves. What might it be like to be a carnivorous lacewing larvae, disguising ourselves with lichens and mosses to find dinner? To have shelter on a tree?

What might it feel like to be a bumble bee queen, newly awakened and still wet, but on the south warm side of a tree?

Wisdom we do not have, but this mighty, old Red Maple at Knox Woods State Nature Preserve offers much. We enjoy spending time with them and basking in the fruition of their size, of their life, of our lives, of plants bearing their riches.

Thanks for following along with us all these years and taking such significant action in your own way to safeguard this place we all call home. We appreciate you more than you will ever know!