Leave No Trace?

Yesterday, our whole family was walking together along the Hudson River in our hometown in New York. This sacred river was originally called the Muhheakantuk, the river that flows both ways, by the Kitchawank people who stewarded this land for thousands of years. I was reminded of this history by reading something incredible that a friend of mine from our Writing Circle wrote and published in The Dark Mountain Project, These Waters Are Patient.

In 3rd grade my class did a play and we wrote and sung a song called “The River That Flows Both Ways” and I remember feeling entranced. There was so much I wanted to learn and know about the history of these waters.

Perhaps a seed was planted that day.

Later that school year we also had a class field trip on an old sailboat on that river-…a field trip that my Dad would join, which was rare. My Dad wasn’t able to be around for many school things, but he loved the water, he loved boats and he loved sharing that passion with his family. When my Dad suddenly passed away in 2016, my affinity for the river and the surrounding lands fed by these waters only grew stronger and more meaningful.

At the end of our walk yesterday, my daughter spotted a bundle of daffodils growing beneath a large tree. It was hard to miss the bright bouquet of yellow amongst the stretch of browns and greens. Her urge to reach for and grasp this color and take it with us was understandable to me. I felt the pull, too. So when she asked me, “Can I pick one Mom? Just one?” There was a part of me that wanted to say, “Okay, just one.”

Because wouldn’t it be just joyful to have that burst of yellow in our home? Wouldn’t it be wonderful to feel the softness of the petals. . . to put our nose up to the pollen and perhaps walk away painted in yellow dust?

But I couldn’t say yes.

In the split seconds of that pause, I envisioned the meltdown that might ensue. I scanned the area, realizing the peace of many that we would be responsible for disturbing. I checked around for other fragrant flowers, and there were none. I imagined if all the children here today picked a daffodil. There would be none left.

I waited an extra second to answer her, hoping she’d move on to something else. But her gaze was there, patiently waiting my reply.

My mind flashed back to the Kitchawank. Carefully tending to this land. I imagined the tall, towering Tulip trees on my weekly walks in the neighboring woods, and how the native peoples used them for canoes to navigate these waters. My mind flashed back to the long walks I used to steal any moment I could in my early postpartum days, over looking the Muhheakantuk, listening to “Braiding Sweetgrass” on late nights when my husband took over bedtime duty. I heard Robin Wall Kimmerer’s voice eloquently reading the Honorable Harvest:

“Is it the first? Is it the last? Take only what you need and leave some for others.”

It was just one bundle of daffodils, maybe 15 of them. There was no way I could justify us taking even one. Not now. Not like this.

I was shocked that I found a way to convey this to my daughter and that she accepted my explanation without fight. It’s not often that happens. But I hoped and imagined a seed was planted that day there in her, too.

I ran through it happening another way. Saying yes and having her pick the flower without consideration. Perhaps there would be beautiful, fleeting joy. But, would the flower die on the drive home? Would she leave it to wilt in the car? What message would we walk away with? And I wondered what would happen in her life thereafter. Would she pick every flower without considering the context? Is this how we got where we are today? Rivers polluted, forests paved over? Sounds like an exaggeration perhaps. . . but maybe. . . not. . .…

“Eighty years until daily floods will make lower Manhattan uninhabitable” Samantha Harvey quotes in These Waters are Patient. It’s the second time I’ve heard that this year. From David Attenborough was the first.

My girls are five and three.

I don’t pretend that this one small move towards a flower somehow makes us more environmentally friendly than anyone else. But, I am grateful for the pause. I am grateful for the reflection. For them and for me.

At the United Nations University for Peace I took a course in Ecotourism. I spent many weeks deep in the rainforests of Costa Rica doing field studies, as well as many weeks around a table of thoughtful individuals discussing environmental conflicts and pathways to peace. As we walked, we often talked about the concept of “Leave No Trace”. All the ways we can walk these woods and minimize our footprints. Everything from dropping garbage to noise pollution to staying on the trail to avoid further damage to ecosystems. But we also talked about “If you don’t use it, you lose it.” And there is something to be said about interacting with our local ecosystems. Dirt under fingernails. Looking closely at the underside of fern. Tasting the mushrooms. The more flora & fauna we can name, the more likely we are to protect them. The more our senses become involved the more deeply we remember our connection to all living things and the more likely we are to care for them.

So, I think sometimes it’s okay and good and necessary to pick the flowers. To pocket the pebble. To caress the lichen.

I think the context matters.

Here’s an old piece from Robin Wall Kimmerer in 2015 that reviews the practices of The Honorable Harvest. Combined with Samantha Harvey’s These Waters Are Patient you’re likely to shed a tear or two, but also walk away with the tangible reasons we must tend to this land we depend on.

As the world rebirths this Spring, perhaps we can consider a bit more carefully how we can care for our land (and our selves), as she continues to care for us.

xoxo

in love & solidarity

jaime

p.s. mark your calendars for Mother’s Day Weekend: Who Cares? (s)mother stories takes over Open Mic on Friday, May 10 at 7:30pm at Hudson Valley Books for Humanity, in collaboration with Bethany Arts Community.