Garden Invaders

On my Thursday morning walking-with-coffee garden exploration I discover that something--or someone--has cleanly bitten--or snipped--the blooms off nine of my eleven red and pink tulips. I am both mystified and angry. In an early morning dream, two small boys were in my yard threatening plant terror; so my mind turns first toward two-legged invasion of the curbside blooms. But when I discover the ends of the stalks shooting up from a coral bell in the side yard has met the same fate, it seems less likely. A Google search of "what is eating my tulips?" reveals it to be a wide-spread mystery. "Everything eats tulips" proclaims one forum "expert.' My terrorist is most likely a rabbit. I imagine it raised up to its full haunches height, leaning forward, and neatly snipping off and munching the delicacy. Apparently they are discriminating, with a preference for red, mature blooms; explaining why the two newer blooms were left to see another day. I have no explanation for the coral bell tips. Invasion. Even the new fern fronds, which I love, look like stands of aliens. 

I thought that was the worst the week would hold, but on Friday I go to the orthopedist with the return of pain in my knee, injured in a fall New Year's weekend in a DIY project. I most likely have a torn meniscus. There is an MRI in my near future. The reduced mobility and restricted activity feels like an invasion to my usual good health. I am not accustomed to it, and I am resentful. Both events follow angry, hurtful, unfair words early in the week from a former friend that invade my soul garden and lay me low. "Perfect" should-have-saids invade my head in the middle of the night for the rest of the week, and I berate myself mercilessly for not doing a better job of countering her ridiculous words and accusations. Why can I not think of them in the moment? I need more that one conversation in these kind of encounters, and I won't get it this time. I know it's about her pain that has nothing to do with me; and perfect words of defense wouldn't have helped. She was intent on throwing her ashes onto me. I want to give them back, but I know she won't accept them as hers. I want to leave them on the ground, then. But they won't let go of me. Like the ash from the eruption of Mt. St. Helens three decades ago that left ash that is still buried in the bark of trees at my childhood home, I suppose this pain will always be with me. But as bark covers the mountain ash, in time I will grow scar tissue over this invasion.

And then, the tornado trumps the other events of the week.

Yesterday afternoon the sky grew black. As I track the storm with the news crew on TV, I am texting with a friend who is with her dog in the bathroom. I report the storm track to her as I hear it, "it's heading your way." She reports the power going out. "Stay put," I tell her; "it's closeby, it will soon be over." The TV station, between her house and mine, reports that their non-essential personnel have been told to head for low-level, interior rooms. I decide it's time for me to do likewise. The cat and I hang out in the bathroom as the lights flicker, go out, come back on, and repeat. It sounds like it's hailing and the wind howls. I  huddled through Hurricane Fran; and through the Columbus Day storm in my Washington state childhood. This is quicker. The invasion passes. The clouds clear, the sun comes out; and I go out, too.

A bird nest, hopefully it was not in use, is in my front yard. The street is covered with pine tree debris. There is no other sign of what just happened. But a neighbor calls and tells me trees are down and power is out in the next neighborhood. I grab my camera and go for a walk. There is some damage on a couple blocks of one street. A tree branch here, a dangling power line there. Not too bad. I return via the cemetery. I enter through the pedestrian gate and stare into the roots of a huge upended tree. In the confederate corner tree tops are broken, bark is peeled back like a banana, more upended trees. Looking up the hill, I see the clear swath of destruction. I walk up along the path of invasion. Another gargantuan tree down that at first I think is the one I have taken photos up in each season--the one that graces the graves of the Moore family, with its patriarch, Bartholomew, "lawyer and statesman." I realized last week that I didn't have a spring photo, so I think since I am here I will go get a picture for my collection.

It is only a moment before I realize it, too, is down. I approach in tears; I stand and sob. Bartholomew is still standing, but his tree is gone and has taken a dogwood and several stones out with it. The storm continued its twisting fury on a path that took it within three blocks of my house.

Perhaps I should have saved the "Sitting Shiva" title for this post. A discriminating rabbit, an undiscriminating tornado. A dead friendship. Things I care about are gone.

I believe that who we are is the result of all our experiences and all our relation-ships. There is no perfect life or perfect garden or perfect relationship. What would it even look like? I don't know. We are learning as we go. For as long as there is life, if we pay attention, we will keep moving forward. Our gardens, our neighborhoods, things and people we love, relationships, our souls will always be subject to invasion. Things go wrong. And things go right. Winston Churchill said, "The maxim 'nothing but perfection' may be spelled 'paralysis.'" I am going to go with that.

This post was going to be about weeds. Perhaps another time. Other invaders got in the path this week.