Grief stems from love
in this case, love for a particular patch of earth
I am sitting at the kitchen table, enjoying my coffee, and imagining you are here, too. Sorry, no sticky buns today! I just revisited Vera’s post from last week, looking again at her images of the upended hedgerows. I feel a sense of melancholy and sadness. They make me quiet. Her words echo the feelings the images evoke: “I remember standing there studying them, watching the birds fly in and out amongst the dead branches. So peaceful and so sad at the same time.”
I appreciate too how she approached each pile as if she was making a portrait. How she honoured them with care and attention, with her artist’s eye. She said, “I see you. Even upended and destroyed, you are worthy.” She told a story about our relationship with the land that is seldom told.
Think of popular images of this place – those on calendars, coffee table books, the images that reside in our imagination. We see the prairie quilt of summer fields - the bright yellow of canola a hallmark. We don’t show the whole picture. These piles of unearthed homes – somebody’s home – are also a part of our landscape here in the aspen parkland of Saskatchewan
When I drive in any direction, I see them - upended and destroyed wetlands, bulldozed aspen families, cleared ditches and road allowances. Currently, if I donned my cross country skis and felt energetic, I could visit 15 such piles within a few kilometers of our farm yard.
I love these these lines* from the poet Rosemerry Wahtola Trommer:
“every inch of this scarred earth
is host for the sacred”
We are called to love and care for the wounded and scarred places on this earth - for all places.
In the comments below Vera’s post, Marg shared her devastation when a creek bed she loved was cleared, writing, “I felt, and still feel much grief over this loss.” This grief, sometimes called “eco-grief”*, is long-lasting. Marg continues, “We really don't know what we have until it's gone, and often are not aware of pending destruction like this before it takes place.”
Many of us have felt like Marg.
When a series of small aspen bluffs and wetlands was bulldozed near me, I felt it in my body, like a slow and lasting body blow, one which reverberates over time.
This is one of those times when we are acutely aware of our connection to the earth. When the earth is hurting, so am I. When the earth is violated, so am I.
I respond in a number of ways to the bulldozing of the aspen. I phone the new landowner and tell him how I feel about this, sharing that this aspen bluff was home to yellow lady slippers and meadowlarks as well as many other living beings. I write a letter to the editor. I research aspens and write a series of blogs. I write our RM Council. I talk with farmer neighbours, many who feel the same way as I do. Others feel that this destruction is inevitable.
Maybe most importantly, I grieve and lament their loss. I spend time walking among them and around them, noticing how some still try to leaf out in spring even when their roots are in the sky. I thank the aspens and willows, I sing to them, I make offerings and tell them how sorry I am. I continue to visit from time to time until the piles are buried underground. During wet springs, small lakes form where the aspen once grew, a reminder of their presence, of the memory of water.
Back to you - I am curious about the times you have experienced this type of grief. What prompted your grief? How have you lamented, grieved or honoured that which was lost? Have actions arisen from your grief?
We live in a culture that bypasses grief as quickly as possible, and which often denies eco-grief. Yet, grief stems from love, in this case, love of the earth. Grief can ground our actions.
For Vera and I, acknowledging the destruction and the heartbreak is one action. Immersing ourselves in the beauty of these often overlooked places is another. Celebrating that beauty! Add to that, learning the “true” history of this place we call home, and the invitation to each of you to join us around the kitchen table and offer your stories, reflections and questions. We look forward to hearing from you.
Next time, I promise, there will be sticky buns!!
* from the poem “Street Corner Disciple” (https://ahundredfallingveils.com/2022/03/20/street-corner-disciple/
*There are many great articles on eco grief. https://www.theguardian.com/science/2020/jan/12/how-scientists-are-coping-with-environmental-grief
I went back to my family farm land several years ago, to discover that the whole farm yard was razed, other than 5 red granaries. The spruce that was planted when my brother was born and the weeping birch that was planted when my sister was born were gone. (We had moved into town by the time I was born, so I didn't have a tree.) All the other trees gone. My processing of grief? I wrote poems, and the title of my first book is Five Red Sentries, referring to the 5 granaries. Now they are gone, too. I still feel sorrow at the loss of my sibling trees, because they were tall and strong and beautiful and I loved visiting them as i grew up.
I have been saddened by the bulldozing of aspen bushes on what was once my land which we unfortunately had to sell. It was once a diverse piece of habitat. I didn’t mind driving machinery around those bushes. There was always something interesting happening in that field and in those trees. Bird song and beautiful colours especially in fall. My heart cries whenever I have to drive by to see the monoculture it now is. Thank you for your words about grief.