Behind the Scenes, Below the Surface
Squirrels are really fast, have you noticed that?
On a recent morning walk, in a well-timed moment of glancing upward, I saw the furry quick movement of one in the bare-boned cottonwood canopy overhead, its tail snapping and unfurling into a never-ending question mark (where did I put that black walnut? There? Or was it here? No wait—definitely over there. I think…). He zipped across the long high branches with effortless speed until he noticed me watching him and, without even a pause to consider other options, plunged down the smooth trunk of a sycamore and into the waiting hole of a protruding knot, sucked in as if vacuumed. Might not have been his house at all but perhaps there’s a code among squirrels, that any knothole in a tree is safe haven when danger presents itself. I stayed for a minute more, hoping he’d stick his head out to confirm the wisdom of his fight-or-flight choice (definitely flight) and provide me with a storybook image of woodland cuteness. But no, not today. I was left to keep walking and imagine what might be happening on the other side of the bark.
What does go on inside the trees, I wonder? Behind the bark (grooved or smooth, pebbly or peeling) and cambium, deep in the sapwood and heartwood and pith, it’s another universe of its own, pulling water upward, collecting the years in rings that we can only count if we cut the whole enterprise down for facial tissues, copier paper and 2x4s. I can do some passive research, of course, and will after I’m done here, but it’s enough for now to sit a bit in the mystery of what I can’t see, to live in the question and be fascinated by the possibilities. And then to realize that there’s a LOT going on beneath the surface in every direction I look. I will leave this earth with a stack of books unread, mysteries unsolved. Better get ok with that.
The Geminids meteor shower just wrapped up its peak time last week and I got to see one in another well-timed moment of looking up as I put my rolling computer bag in the backseat of the car. It never gets old, that streak of light leaving a short shimmer against the black backdrop of celestial infinity, and I always clap my hands, applauding the show the heavens put on for free. There’s something to watch each night and I get decidedly ambitious, keeping track of the monthly meteor shower schedule, vowing to wake up in the inconvenient middle of the night to witness them all. But my intentions quickly evaporate, competing with the heavy weight of much-needed sleep and I’m left to trust as I drift off that beyond the layers of drywall and trusses and standing seam metal roofing over our heads, those chunks of silicate minerals are flying through space, obedient to Kepler’s Laws and oblivious to our desire to gaze upon them.
Too often , I get caught up in musing about the world beneath my feet, below the grass and rhizomes, mantle, outer core and inner core, layers I won’t see in my lifetime until it’s all Over, and I’ll be nestled in or scattered across only a miniscule fraction of that thin crust (this is where my claustrophobia kicks in and I lean heavily toward cremation, my ashes dusting a wide swath of Naked Acres carried by a gentle southern wind. I’ll only be in that fiery chamber for a couple of hours. I think I can handle that). But before that inevitable transition, I wonder what villages and communities are bearing my weight each time I head out the back door to empty the compost bucket from the kitchen or cross the front yard past the steadfast silver maple to refill the feeders on the ridge. I know there are chipmunks and moles at least, as evidenced by the open holes and speedbumps they leave behind. Thrifty and hidden, they get about their business with inspiring reliability, feeding their families and tidying up the pile of fallen seeds our sparrows drop with impunity (perhaps there’s some arrangement going on?). I’m grateful they feel some responsibility to join me in the caretaking of this place.
I could do this all day, wonder about what I can’t see, what I don’t know, ponder the natural rhythms and occurrences that I’m sure others have explored thoroughly with tiny concealed camera technology and silent drones capturing every second of the action. But if I dial in to what happens here, on this humbly small but packed sliver of our shared Home, I’m left to rely on my own respectful curiosity wrapped in a profound trust that what eludes my observation doesn’t need my help. I’m one of the living among other lives and best to keep that in front of me as I slip into my walking boots, direct sow the butternut squash in spring and lumber across the open fields atop the mower.
Years back, as Patrick was picking through a pile of cut scrap lumber at a local hardware store, he pulled out a short 4x6 piece that revealed dead center a black walnut shell embedded in the grain and sliced in half when the wood was cut. Waiting in the checkout line (we weren’t going to let this marvel go anywhere but home with us) we ran our fingers over the rough chambers of the exposed inner shell, imagining how it came to be there in the first place. Discarded nutmeat casing, tossed aside by a satisfied squirrel in one of those vacuum sycamore knotholes some cozy late autumn evening, and an understanding tree that swallowed it whole. Not sure how often that happens but this humble slice of woodland mystery is our first and quite possibly our last.
At least, the last one we’ll probably see on these here acres anyway.
