Life in the Cracks
I feel sorry for the freeway trees.
Those patient and stalwart sentries who never know true darkness, never really sleep. They inhale the dust and diesel of round-the-clock traffic, their leaves in a state of constant flutter from the downdraft of semis and buses.
And they still turn green each spring.
I see them through bus windows dulled and smudged with fingerprints and they seem determined, yet resigned. And there’s no safe way to touch them reassuringly on my twice-weekly commute to the city of concrete and steel.
My Wednesdays and Thursdays put me right in front of the paradox of living things growing out of concrete and I give thanks for those tiny green spaces, surprising and resolute, as indifferent footsteps rush past insistent sprouts by inches or less. There are trees lining the streets, sapling size, in carefully curated pots surrounded by wrought iron fencing but…where do their roots go? The metal sewer lid nearby suggests an underworld of dangling woody tentacles reaching for soil that doesn’t exist above tracks of clay tiling that channel all manner of waste to, eventually, the river that snakes its way through the city’s finest stacked architecture. When folks leave the buildings to take their lunch on the statehouse lawn, where precisely placed older crabapples, red buckeyes, northern red oaks, star magnolias, sugar maples and baldcypress hug the outer edges of the meticulously landscaped grounds, they might be gladdened to see signs of life that resemble a hiking trail they once visited. It is important to note that the trees listed are all native to Ohio, evidence of thoughtful planning decades ago. Occasionally, a white squirrel makes an appearance in the branches of a crabapple closest to the bus stop. Those of us waiting to climb aboard and head home point and smile.
Things continue to grow worse and there’s no looking away or pretending it’s not happening. Alaska, for the first time ever in its history, is under a heat advisory, joining the majority of the lower 48 as we sweat through the next week miserably together, and still we scroll past that horrible reality in search of a better headline, only to find that the US unconstitutionally bombed three nuclear sites in Iran yesterday while Gaza speeds toward a deeper level of its own humanitarian crisis. If it weren’t so hot upstairs, I’d be under the bed right now, praying in fierce desperation. But I’ll stay put here on the couch, with a view of the trees on the ridge and the luxury of a large fan oscillating its relief across the living room. Our house wrens and orioles seem blissfully unaware of any human turmoil and for a few moments, I close my eyes and join them in their daily quest for survival. I want to live too. And thank the heavens, prayer is infinitely portable.
How do we cope with this? There are myriad options, many of them encouraging and effective, others more indicative of our darker side as a species. Our ability to choose wisely hangs taut in the balance, a knife’s edge of informed intention and childlike “just make it go away” terror. In the absence of my own parents, I look to those slightly older than I am for even a spark of hope. In their presence, I feel safe for a few moments and that’s enough. They are my green sprouts, daring to come forth in the midst of all that hard concrete of evil and despair. Children too (thinking of my great-niece, Nora, who knows only comfort and her parents’ cheerful deep love and how it feels to be held and fed) bring this measure of reassurance and I fling it all outward so that it lands on others who are at their wits’ end. Litanies and supplications are now an intricately-woven tapestry of protection, strength to endure and resilience, the Ask to End All Asks. Somehow, beauty finds its way in there and nestles itself right next to the weariest part of my soul, sending down roots and pushing out buds that I know will bloom. I just don’t know when or how.
Our garden is loving this heat, following a long stretch of episodic showers and downpours. Weeding one of the raised beds yesterday resulted in an unplanned red onion harvest and now our salads and sandwiches will have an extra tanginess that we love. Oven-roasted and put atop black bean burgers, we’ll eat them in grateful silence as the cats lay flat on the coolest floors of the house, not moving at all.
Dear friends, I’m clinging these days to whatever grows up and out of the concrete, those ambitious sprouts and buds that didn’t read the rulebook on ideal germination conditions. Life and love are the only “once and for all” I understand in my short time on this planet we share. They keep showing up, keep coming back with lessons and guidance and renewal in their open and generous hands. When I look to my left and right, over my head and to the earth beneath my somewhat steady feet, they’re all I see that fits the definition of “forever.”
I choose them. Again. Today, and in whatever arrives tomorrow.
