It’s the first day of spring, i.e., the vernal equinox, and on a near-distant hillside at the southern edge of Nashville, just above the walls of limestone exposed by dynamite blasts from when they built I-65, tufts of green have appeared, almost as if overnight. I see them while I eat half a granola bar in the solitude of a vacant office, inside the 70s-era, four-story, castle-like (minus the towers, crenellations, and medieval fenestrations) brick building which houses the reference lab where I burn a weekly forty. Bark flapping on a river birch, which I see from a different window, resembles the toss-and-lift of preening bird wings.
Spring has its beauty, but it also means the heat is coming. It means flower beds need a new layer of pine straw, weeds need spraying, and the lawn needs—gulp—mowing (I cringe every time I hear a neighbor’s mower crank up; I delay this chore as long as possible, but it’s like some of my neighbors just can’t wait). So I’ll be spending the next few weeks trying to figure out how to pause these milder temperatures, and how to make the redbuds and the dogwoods hold onto their blossoms a little longer.
I turned off my radio because I noticed the tips of the trees were already bare in many places. All across their tops the sunlight was catching them in a way that softened them like the bristles of a baby’s hairbrush, except wavier and stretched wide as the land–an earthwide undulation of soft, orange-pink bristles. And I turned the radio off because I wanted to listen to the trees, which is another way of saying I wanted to listen to nothing, because nature doesn’t talk to us: a leaf falls, and we call it an omen. We pick it up; turn it in our hands; roll our mind over its veins and across its papery flesh behind a dry fingertip, searching and searching for meaning, and when the meaning doesn’t come we create it: this is the sacred work of the artist. And aren’t those bristles lovely.
I used to think we could commune with nature, like the way that Ralph Waldo Emerson suggests in his writings on Transcendentalism; that by virtue of simply spending time in it, with ears, eyes, and mind attuned, something spiritual might pass between us and it.
At some point a break occurred, however, and I find the notion of communion with nature increasingly difficult. Indeed, the word that presents itself to me over and over now is ‘indifference.’ Nature is indifferent to us–I can’t seem to shake this feeling, though I want to. I want that innocence of my twenties, when the woods buzzed with mystery; when a gust of cool wind contained echoes of ancient rituals; when the deep red-orange of autumn maples burned with knowledge of species long extinct; when the molecules of magnificent events lingered inside the furrows of ashes, behind the peels of shagbark hickories, or tight against the rippled trunks of beech trees. But now it all seems like mere vegetation–no less beautiful, just void of the visions it once held; no less a fertile ground for the imagination, just no longer offering transcendence.
Perhaps I’ve been reading too much Modernist literature, or perhaps it’s an effect of age. I do miss seeing nature through those younger eyes. Oddly, though, the loss is not all that sad. In fact, it feels pretty natural.