Made visible

The sparkle of snow caught by a breeze on a sunny day is a special thing. The wind picks up and, quite suddenly, the air is full of movement and light as flakes previously settled on branches throughout the forest shake free, sometimes cascading, sometimes lifting in a puff, and sometimes in a swirl. We are stunned every time this happens, my children and I, as we journey through the white, deep woods. A breeze lifts and we all stop walking because the only way to witness such glory is with total attention. Wind and the stretch of light between the trees are suddenly made visible as they both meet glistening flakes and we stare and stare until it fades away, the snow resettled in a new home.

We are walking with long sticks in hand, pausing every time we reach a hemlock tree to gently tap the branches until they are bare of snow. We are doing this because Hemlock Woolly Adelgid has arrived in the woods here in Maine, a destructive little insect that feeds on hemlock trees. We live on the edge of a wildlife sanctuary and the director of the sanctuary has told us that, this winter, the temperatures are cold enough that the insects might be killed, but the branches must be bare for this to happen. My children have taken to the assignment with tremendous interest, not even complaining in the moments where they are unsuccessful in dodging the cascade of snow as they shake the branches free.

Delight. It is everywhere today: in the wind-swept dance of the snow, in the children and their quest for hemlocks, in my dog as he leaps, buries his nose, and then leaps through the snow again. I feel it myself: the world invites us to fill with wonder, to be moved as we move through an exceptionally beautiful day.

The children discover a very young hemlock nearly buried, branches bound together by clumps of ice. They kneel down in the snow, surrounding the sweet little tree, and get to work with such tenderness that I find myself once again brought to still attention.

Together, they gently free each delicate branch and the tiny tree slowly emerges. Bits of ice still cling to the needles and my daughter lies on her belly in the snow and begins to puff her warm breath at the tree. My son, meanwhile, cradles the little branches between his bulky mittens. Their affection for the tree, their connectionwith this young life, is palpable.

Recently, as I watch them together, I am frequently visited with sudden images of my sister and I when we were young, exploring together, partnered in the adventurous endeavor that is learning to know and love this world. On this particular day, as I watch my children care for the young tree, my mind flashes to a beautiful grove of hemlocks that once stood near my childhood home in New Hampshire. We could reach the grove by way of an old, sometimes overgrown trail through the woods. On summer days, we’d take a picnic and wander to sit in the relative coolness under the wide, spreading branches. The smell of warmed hemlock needles is something I still remember, the sweetness permeating the air.

In the winter, we’d bundle clementines and thermoses of hot chocolate into a backpack and ski to the grove to savor our own day of snow and sparkles.

Then, one year, the owners of the grove decided to clear cut. There was nothing selective or thoughtful about the approach; the entire grove was decimated, the ground torn and heaved by machinery tracks. I can still remember my mother’s grief. Her love for the trees was cast into sharp view by the loss, like the movement of wind suddenly clearly apparent through its interaction with snow.

As my children gently remove snow from the little tree, I watch their small bodies fill with pride at the sense of responsibility, but also with something more. I do not wish to make assumptions, but it strikes me that they are experiencing the sense of groundedness that comes when we tap into our connection with other living beings and honor that connection with acts of care, even when the outcome is not guaranteed. My children love these trees, like their grandmother did before them.

I do not wish to make assumptions. But these thoughts land in my body as commonsense. What we love, we seek to honor with tender care. How could it be otherwise?

And then there is this piece of acting without a guaranteed outcome. My children know it is not a game, this work of clearing branches. They understand what is at stake. Of course, they want to save the trees. Of course, they will grieve, also like their grandmother before them, if the trees die. But right now, they are here, in this sparkling, glistening forest and the trees are here too. So much is still possible. And it strikes me that there is incredible courage involved in action without guaranteed outcome. How else can we hold our love for this world right now, and let it flow through our bodies into service and care, but with tremendous bravery threaded in every gesture?