While in Seattle last weekend, there were very few people around and not a lot of cars either—this being the first weekend in January. The general lack of urban activity allowed me to take a longer look at the maples, oaks, magnolias, and other assorted varieties holding their own amongst the myriad of ever-changing structures that compose the downtown corridor.
It was a typically dreary set of early winter days in the city. Most pedestrians I encountered seemed tired or cold and/or mostly distracted by their own preoccupation with whatever seems wrong with their current circumstance. Or maybe that’s just how I saw it? It’s hard to say. But I did feel a hovering malaise, a reluctance to engage, to look forward even, in the general vibe around me. The brilliant writer, Elizabeth Marshall1 recently described this sensation, so apropos of January in the PNW as, “Suddenly finding yourself in a Deadwood episode, walking down sidewalks made out of mud."
Doesn’t matter! The trees go on. They are doing something, always. They work with what they’ve got, with whatever comes their way, and in all cases offer something back. Wherever they live. I envy that about them.
In my other life I am a hemlock, lacy limbs sculpting prayers disguised as cones, transcribing storms into love letters written in every language; wanting nothing but to harbor generations of wren, swift and swallow to camouflage flickers just for the sake of it to inherit worlds from the dust and the dirt (thinking nothing of death which is never death); to stand the full course of time's cast shadows, not minding the night's indifference to day, minding nothing at all but the uncurious mind.
Elizabeth Marshall’s forthcoming Substack is in the works! Until then, I recommend her newest book, The Drinking Curriculum.