The Etiquette of Alliance
“The truth about who you are lies not at the root of the tree but rather out at the tips of the branches, the thousand tips... To practice subversive genealogy means to forget the idealism of a singular forefather and remember these thousands. With that remembrance you must multiply the sense of who you are, multiply it until it disappears.”
The Crocodile Rock gazes out to sea. His nostrils are above the water, but just barely. He wears a wreath of yellow wildflowers. Along his brow the seagulls settle into their notches, like freckles on the crocodile’s forehead. The great blue herons stand on the flat, knobby ridge of the crocodile’s brow, in the last rays of low sun, with their wings held open to dry. This is their early evening gathering place. Usually, there are ten. When the circle is complete, the Heron Council begins. They will decide what to do about the world these days.
Animal wisdom surrounds us, but we don’t yet know how to listen and behave accordingly. We look but do not see. Lately, I have been writing about deforestation, and the relationship between people and trees. Last weekend, I found myself feeling stuck and slightly despairing, wondering what really needs to be said. As I sat outside, struggling, I glanced at the small pine tree I planted a few years ago, and felt it summon me. I especially love that tree. It was rescued from a friend’s garden where it had languished, root-bound in its too-small plastic container in a corner of the yard.
When I walked over to the pine tree, I saw that its trunk had grown much more quickly and much thicker than I had realized. Three cords that secured it loosely to a stake had grown tight and sliced into its flesh. I managed to cut most of the cords away, but the gashes remain, and they’re deep. I am responsible, and I am horrified. I apologized to the tree; I offered water and sheepish words to express my heavy-hearted affection and remorse. As I turned to walk back to the house, the tree said, Trees and humans share breath. It was the answer to my writing question. I was astonished, but not surprised.
Many of us have deep connections with specific animals or trees, and certain wild places. When we’re away from it all, it’s easier to be in a receptive state, to extend love and a gentle receptivity as the primary mode of interaction. At home, a different sort of focus is required, one that is more incremental and sustained. It’s easy to get distracted, to feel the too-many things clamoring for attention. I am still learning. Still a beginner.
At the garden called Perelandra, Machelle Small Wright learned to connect with the overlighting spirits of the plants and animals who reside there - the Devas of the earthworms, animals, bees, plants and soil. They told her what they needed and how to form partnerships for the benefit of humans and garden alike. She wrote a book about her experiences: Behaving As If the God In All Life Mattered. The title, like the book, is wise: these are good words to live by, especially now.
She writes that once, while digging a row to plant vegetables, she had to stop because so many earthworms were being sliced by the shovel’s blade. She got quiet, requested connection, and asked them to please leave that row while she dug. After about fifteen minutes, there were no worms in the soil, and she returned to her digging. When the row was complete, she notified the worms and they returned. I am learning to converse with snails and trees. Gophers are next.
Recently, a large lizard became trapped in the screened porch of a friend in rural Los Angeles. She said that she and the lizard looked at each other, held each other’s gaze as she held the door open. When the lizard felt ready, he cautiously began to move toward freedom. Just then, another friend leaned forward to get a closer look. The lizard froze. She had not meant to frighten it, but that’s how we humans are sometimes: we forget to consider how our actions might affect the beyond-human world. Though we mean no harm, we lean too close to lizards. We forget to check the cords on trees.
I remember seeing a clever T-shirt years ago. On it was a picture of a border collie, with the words, We always herd the ones we love. With a little luck and a lot of devotion, perhaps one day we’ll be able to say, We heard them.
