We were yearning for spring and fearing we had missed our moment.  The gloom and rain and one thing after another held us back from our annual pilgrimage until finally, finally, we made a date and were able to keep it! And what was all our fuss about? Why, that brilliant flame of pure yellow that rises out of the tangle of old brown leaves and half-flooded bottomland: the noble Skunk Cabbage!

The best place to find it has always been Watershed Park, a place where Margaret’s fingerprints are indelible. Yes, back in the mid-1950s she had mobilized the citizenry to save the old abandoned spring-laden grounds from where the town had piped its water supply for decades, but which then was being eyed for clear-cutting and development. There were all kinds of ideas of what to do with the City-owned property, from logging to building projects, anything that would fatten the coffers of the town. At first only the Garden Club ladies (Margaret being one of them) rose up, but using that modern tool kit of the telephone and a good cause, soon Margaret and her friends had crowds attending Council meetings and reams of protest letters hitting the newspapers—back then when newspapers were the voice of the community. The pressure was on in a very public way! It took some skirmishing but the Park advocates won and the magnificent trees were saved, the springs were allowed to bubble to the surface, and all the attendant plant and animal life to flourish. Later, trails and small bridges were installed to guide visitors through the mossy-trickling-wet spots and up and through the forest. It is a haven of peace and beauty.

And a habitat perfect for Skunk Cabbage! We wound our way through the giant trees and followed the path down to where the spring water pooled and made little rippled streams through the silt and last year’s leaves. A bit anxious: were we too late in the season? 

First one and then another bright plume of yellow caught our eyes. And then more here and there. We smiled. We had not missed the spring! It was everywhere, in the hazel bushes, the green tips of Indian Plum, the glistening ferns, the soft air.

The Earth is dancing toward the Solstice, that magical moment when ticks of sunlight seep back into the sky and, touch by touch, revive our northern hemisphere, moving into winter, yet promising a spring. Human will and longing have nothing to do with it, the Earth has its own traditions, its own wisdom.  Still, we light candles, dance spiraling rings of energy and prepare special foods to welcome back the light. We do these things in fear and hope, “in case” our yearning adds any urgency or weight that moves this great turning.

Susan Cooper says it best in her poem, The Shortest Day, introduced here with just the first stanza:

So the Shortest Day came and the year died

And everywhere down the centuries of the snow‐white world

Came people singing, dancing,

To drive the dark away.

But just now, let’s revel in darkness, let’s rest awhile in its velvety folds, its mystery and cavernous silence. The bustle and noise of the world is too much with us. We can get lost on the beaten path.

This might be the time to slip off into the forest, find a tree that seems to welcome us, and shelter under its reaching branches. Sit and breathe in the tree incense. Bathe in its healing atmosphere. Ask for nothing and yet receive wonders. Or lay on your back in a field looking up into the night sky, letting the prick of starlight accentuate the vastness of the dark. Let it fill you; don’t resist.

If the rain is just too much, we can turn off our house lights and just rest in the dark and let our thoughts go where they need…to remembrance, to those gone from us, to dark places and then to hope and all that we love, still.

Stay as long as you can, explore the quiet of that moment when the Earth seems to pause and wait for a spark, a new breath. And then light your candle! Welcome Solstice!

The rain took a pause today in its headlong ambition to make up for our too-dry summer, so it was a chance to get outside for a leaf walk before they are all turned to a soggy mash-up. The colors are glorious this year! As if to make up for all the human strife and anguish, with nothing more than a quiet sigh the trees reveal their hidden wealth: ruby red, gold, brilliant orange, some veined with green for contrast, some so red they are almost purple. When the sun shines through the branches the trees light up like bonfires. I can’t get enough of looking at the display, the wonder of it all.

I try to walk slowly and let my eyes search out the ground strewn with color as the breeze tosses leaves here and there. And then look up into branches still crowded with leaves waiting for their release at just the right moment. Not yet, I’m grateful, wanting the show to go on and on. But that’s the thing, it’s not for me; I’m just the lucky observer. The trees have their own agenda; my part is to notice, to pay attention. To let their lives lift mine with joy.

And I’m not the only one taking this moment: the birds are everywhere busy building up their winter reserves, marauding my birdfeeder and then secreting seeds, or devouring the suet and packing on extra weight for leaner times. The flickers flash their orange feathers that rival the leaves as they dash in and out. Mostly the smaller birds take turns: chickadees, juncos, golden-crowned sparrows, nuthatches, but the noisy starlings boldly shoulder in whenever they see an opening. These are my “everyday” birds, but I had a real moment of awe a few days ago. This startling creature landed on my fence railing and calmly looked about. He then popped down to the ground and waded among the ferns. He stayed for a while, like a being from another world. That was a surprise, a jolt of awe! A touch of the wild!

My thesaurus offers these synonyms for awe: reverence and respect. The hawk, without having to say or do anything but show up, demanded both. The darker side of awe–fear and dread–was also present, at least for any of the smaller birds who were instantly scarce and silent. We felt its power too. A more complex state of awe. And then today, as I was soaking up the tree-glory, two eagles circled overhead, screaming and wheeling before disappearing across the open dome of the sky. “We are here! We are the wild!” Awesome, indeed.

I am a member of a study group that doesn’t shy away from difficult subjects: we’ve recently studied the eye-opening work of Matthew Desmond, Poverty By America, and the complicated issues of how human infrastructure literally crushes the lives of other creatures through the wide-ranging inquiries of Ben Goldfarb in his new book, Crossings: How Road Ecology is Shaping the Future of Our Planet. You get the idea. These are tough reading and beg for active responses. But a new topic proposed for exploration really hit me: Where do you find awe in your life? And what is your “awe quotient?” (There is a quiz to find out your score! Search for Greater Good Magazine and you’ll find their Awe Quiz!)

Hmmm. I knew what the “right answers” were but I realized I hadn’t been doing much practicing of the practice lately….yes, awe is a practice, just like meditation or athletic training. I felt—well—flabby!  So I resolved to bring back awe into my life with a more concerted and conscious effort.

I went outside. I found one of my favorite really big trees, actually two trees that grow together, entwined for life. I breathed in their essence, imagining their roots even as I gazed up and up into their branches. I felt their rough reddish bark. Ahh.

Nearby, I noticed a moss-covered rock, a whole world—miniature in comparison—but vigorous, various, and brilliant from the recent rains. Worthy of awe. And flourishing near the rock was a thicket of lichen: twiggy, layered, intricate. Two life forms I wish I knew more about. Part of awe is wonder, and wondering-about. Moss and lichen call to us, full of mystery: how do they live? Where do they belong in the scheme of life? I felt a surge of awe just looking into the tangle of greens and grays.

As I wandered home, all around me were trees, their leaf colors deepening into Fall: yellows and reds, orange and a golden kind of brown. I looked for ones of every hue and shape…and found….Mushrooms! Everywhere. Some right in the open, some tucked here and there. All different, so many kinds! It became a treasure hunt! These were my finds, all unnamed by me, but each itself, no matter. Awesome, indeed!

My Audubon calendar marked yesterday as World Migratory Bird Day, a very important topic but one that felt a bit late to the party. Judging by all the activity in my garden the birds have long settled in for the season. I missed my chance to check out a wonderful sounding website BirdCast that has found a way to track and map birds on their seasonal treks, correlating their movements with weather patterns and distinguishing their small bodies from other moving objects…like bats! I hope to revisit this site come autumn to marvel the images of the mass of moving specks crossing my local skies. One thing I didn’t know was that many birds fly by night, making migration even more of a mystery.

Instead, we celebrated Glacial Prairie Day, a much beloved and missed outing since the Covid closures, but now back for its one-day-a-year special opening of a conserved prairie near Olympia. This is a very special and rare place. These prairies developed thousands of years ago as the glaciers from the last ice age melted away leaving a gravelly outwash along the receding edges that favored grasses and a profusion of wildflowers over dense forest growth. The indigenous people, who settled the area as the ice released it, kept the prairies open using controlled burning which allowed their particular food plants to flourish. As Euro-American settlers later proliferated, this practice was lost as much of the wild prairie lands were ploughed, built-over, or allowed to revert to trees. Only small remnants remain like small blue seas in spring, rippling with camas plants in the breeze.

But the alarm has been heard and some of these places have been saved, restored, and cared for using both modern methods and ancient burning tactics. The Heritage Glacial Prairie, under the auspices of the Thurston County Center for Natural Lands Management, is one of these conserved areas. Native plant enthusiasts, Audubon members, and myriad others flocked to the re-opening, rejoicing in the blue sky and blue fields of camas flowers. The 1,100 acres with carefully laid out trails had room enough to allow a meandering pace, spacious views across expanses of fields and rolling hummocky hills stretching up to the higher Black Hills, punctuated with single trees or small stands of Douglas fir, and lined by mossy woods following the course of a river on one side.

The main show was the flowers. The cloudless sky—also rare—was the perfect complement to the pastel colors that dotted the path-side verge. We alternated between ohs-and-ahs as we spotted the many specimens on the ground and then searched the sky for birds. Purple martins cut arcs above us or fluttered to their perches in clusters of bird boxes high on poles, singing and burbling as the spirit moved them. All the while the breezes refreshed us; the very air felt alive and welcoming. We were in a daze of happy discovery: grateful for the day, grateful for all who worked to save this place and open it for our annual delight. We felt as restored as the prairie that buzzed with huge bees, tiny blue butterflies, flashing birds and waving camas blooms.

Yes, I went outside today and breathed in the blossoming scent of flowering trees gracing so many streets and gardens in my neighborhood. Luckily the incessant rain was taking a break and my walk was not a scurry while clutching an umbrella. We needed this reprieve!

But serious couch time is also the perfect opportunity to get in some reading time. So in a build-up to Earth Day, I’ve been binging on three different books that give the history that culminated in Earth Day in different ways. They all tell me something, from different angles, about the years Margaret was most politically active with her conservation work in Olympia and beyond. As we say here, all roads seem to lead to Margaret even if she didn’t make it onto these pages.

I began with an excellent book by Robert Musil, President of the Rachel Carson Council, titled “Rachel Carson and Her Sisters: Extraordinary Women Who Have Shaped America’s Environment.” He documents many of the women who played important roles in creating some of the unsung work of the environmental movement that gave Rachel Carson the platform for her groundbreaking work, “Silent Spring.” She did not appear out of nowhere, unsupported, but lived and worked in an expansive network comprised of many women and some men. It’s a fascinating story of people you are glad to meet and give credit.

In a post on the Rachel Carson Council website, Musil also mentions another author we should all read who digs even deeper into the origins of the modern environmental movement for more insights into early activists who are not as well known as Carson: Chad Montrie who wrote his book “The Myth of Silent Spring: Rethinking the Origins of American Environmentalism.”  Therein, we learn even more about many groups who were addressing pollution, health impacts of living and working in contaminated and smog-ridden areas, and desecration of cherished places. His work deepens our knowledge of more often-forgotten people and groups who fought back against the wave of environmental destruction that surged as industry and urbanization transformed our world.

[See: https://rachelcarsoncouncil.org for more on the work of this Council, an excellent resource for our times]

The biggest door-stopper of all is historian Douglas Brinkley’s third book in his series on the work of American presidents and their administrations to address environmental issues of their days. “Silent Spring Revolution” follows his first book on the role of President Theodore Roosevelt, “The Wilderness Warrior,” and second, “Rightful Heritage: Franklin D. Roosevelt and the Land of America.” This newest book tells the history of what he calls the Long Sixties, 1960—1973, detailing the work of Presidents Kennedy, Johnson and Nixon. I’m just beginning to delve into this book but it promises to be as fulsome as his first two studies.

There are so many great sources for environmental history that will inform and inspire readers. We all stand on various shoulders; it’s helpful to understand the variety of points of view and analysis that add to such a complex bundle of issues. Any action we take—from writing a letter to decision-makers, to protesting lack of action on climate change, or planting an organic garden for pollinators and birds to find refuge—is strengthened when we know we are part of a movement with roots—and branches. Standing with Rachel Carson and all who stood with her is a fitting celebration of this most important day of standing with the Earth we all love and depend upon.

That should keep us all warm on this rainy April 17^th, Margaret’s birthday. I sometimes wonder what she would think of life today if she were granted the chance to take a look. So much would be baffling…but some important things don’t change beyond recognition or disappear altogether.

A friend reports she saw four dippers hunting insects in the rushing waters of the Deschutes River by Tumwater Falls. The eagles nesting in a tall Douglas-fir just steps from Margaret’s old house, wheeling and calling over the neighborhood, and the Barred Owl I hear hooting not far from my house, are voices from the nearby wild that remind us we share this world. Margaret would have celebrated that closeness.

Recently, a friend and I went downtown here to witness Great Blue Herons nesting in a small grove of trees just steps from our busy Farmer’s Market. At first we could only see the large masses of sticks high up in the trees that they called home. But then we spied some movement half hidden deep in the bushy branches and as we peered and waited, first one and then another heron winged into view to join the party. We marveled at the sight of such large birds angling in flight to land in the dense growth. Somehow they folded those enormous wings and tucked their long beaks into a shape that could balance and fit what might accommodate a sparrow or pigeon! They squawked and fluttered, quarreled a bit and groomed, right at home. We were duly amazed.

I imagine Margaret as delighted by such sights and sounds. She would have loved the smaller birds, too. The chickadees, nuthatches, Bush-tits, and juncos that I watch come to my feeder outside my kitchen window, and the Towhees, hummingbirds, robins and jays that claim my garden as their own territories. There is a golden-crowned sparrow poking about under the bushes and a wild-eyed flicker busily contorting itself to stab at the suet feeder that would have pleased her.

Margaret would have noted the honey-suckle leaves unfolding, and the flowers beginning their spring parade. Her trained eye would have found my pride-and-joy tribute to her: the two bright white flowers of my trilliums, planted in her memory that bloom in time for her birthday. The ones I think of as her signature plants, still cherished, returning faithfully in the woods, and with luck, in my garden. A touch of the wild, a touch of beauty. Happy Birthday, Margaret!