The orchard embraces me; row after row of sturdy trees march down the hill to every side. My words have flown freely in this sanctuary; it is a safe place from which to make my voice heard. It offers breathing space and yet, below the sandy loam, all stand connected. Beneath my feet they reach out to touch their neighbors and I am cradled in a nest of tangled roots. Here among the apples a score of wild creatures and I live protected lives. We ride through the mists of winter on a soft green carpet which, with the spring, becomes a lush jungle of wildflowers. Treetops mirror the floor as bare branches transform themselves into billowing clouds of sweet-scented blossom and a spirited hum reverberates over the hillside as every tree comes alive with bees. Whispers of soft spring air lure us out of our winter caves. The skunk ambles by on a roundabout trip to the compost heap while the orchard cats may be found sunning themselves luxuriously on the clipped grass surrounding my house. Gophers poke their heads up between flurries of dirt to check on my whereabouts for I, too, am drawn outdoors - to dig in the gardens and keep an eye, in turn, on the gophers.
As the sun climbs higher, a thick green canopy replaces the blossoms overhead. The grasses fade to gold and hot afternoons find us resting in the shade, between active mornings and evenings. This is a time of steady work; the long days providing endless hours in which to nurture those enterprises begun in the spring. I write and plant and build while bees and hummingbirds work the riot of flowers in the garden. Kittens, both feline and skunk, romp between the rows of trees by day while spring peepers, along with a lonely bullfrog down by the creek, serenade warm starlit nights. All around us the orchard slowly, steadily, thickens with fruit. We are enmeshed in a vibrant, relentlessly ripening womb. Just as slowly and steadily, the light begins to wane and we roll toward completion. I feast on limitless squash while woodpeckers and squirrels hoard acorns and seeds. Apples ripen, each tree to its own timetable, and late summer days are punctuated by the plop, plop-plop of red and yellow apples dropping into soft soil. Deer browse through the orchard, heads down to the banquet of sweet morsels laid out at their feet. The trees, their fruit released and future generations ensured, are ready to rest. Leaf by leaf, they signal the coming change; by Harvest Moon the canopy is a mellow blend of rust and saffron. Rain and wind sweep the countryside, transferring the leaf cover from above our heads to beneath our feet, and there is a last flurry of activity as the citizens of the orchard prepare their homes, burrows and nests for the dark time ahead.
And then it is upon us. I write now from this aptly named ‘dead of winter’. Bare branches catch the clouds and hold them close to the earth. There is a hush over the hillside; the orchard stands dormant. My own spirit moves sluggishly, wanting nothing more than to curl up in a warm place and rest from my year’s labors. Yet every time I stick my head outside the orchard, I am crowned with thorns; the clamor of tradition and survival descends upon me. At this time of year, when the whole of nature is resting, the human world immerses itself in a cycle of holidays that has evolved to require an immense output of social, monetary and emotional energy. While survival, in our western society, has evolved to mean success … and the struggle to succeed knows no seasons. An unrelenting taskmaster, we are urged on through our culture, community and, most especially, our own expectations. Looking out at this other world, which I also inhabit, I long to mimic the trees that surround me, to banish demands for production and simply lie fallow. And so, emboldened by the example of my sleeping neighbors, I now cry, “Stop!” When I first arrived here, I spoke of having moved to the orchard, of living in the orchard. What I didn’t anticipate was that I would become of the orchard; over the course of a year I have become rooted, sending out my tendrils to entwine with the others. As I eat of the fruits that surround me, my heartbeat slows to match the pulse of this microcosm and I find myself less and less able to go against that rhythm. It calls me not only from the organic world around me but from deep within my own cells. I resent having to move against the cycles in order to ensure a place for myself in the outer world. My priorities are changing. I must learn to forge my path in such a way that I can hold to the natural rhythms and still survive to make my voice heard in this human society, of which I am inextricably a part.
But from here, at midwinter, even thinking about this shift for the better seems too great a task. The flesh has been pared from my bones, leaving me skeletal as the branches that surround me. My words barely move, viscous winter sap, yet as I haltingly commit them to paper I find that clarity returns, as so often happens when I acknowledge the truth of my experience. With these hard-won words, I will give myself permission:
permission to be quiet in a social season;
permission to live simply and work less;
permission to rest until my energy returns, as indeed it shall, when the sap rises again in the trees around me. Fueled by the returning light, the pulse of the orchard will surge and we of the grove, gently woken by sweet spring breezes, will crown ourselves in white blossoms and turn our attention to the creation of a new year’s harvest.
Sebastopol, CA 1999 / 2021
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