Broken and Still Reaching for the Light
Broken Trees Reaching for the Moonlight
The image above is my self-portrait in these difficult times. Seeing the land in Western North Carolina that I have come to love so deeply become this destroyed is heart-wrenching. But as I learned from Trebbe Johnson’s practicum on Radical Joy in Hard Times, we cannot abandon what we love just because it has been harmed or is broken. Honoring this landscape under moonlight seemed especially meaningful to me. Though moonlight is only about 15 percent as strong as sunlight and insufficient for plants to perform photosynthesis (except for a small number of phytoplankton), it does affect plants circadian rhythms and is important for immunity, wound healing, regeneration, and growth since moonlight may affect water in cells. (https://permacultureprinciples.com/post/moonlight-affect-plant-growth/#:~:text=But%20its%20rays%20penetrate%20the,healing%2C%20regeneration%2C%20and%20growth.) Moon gazing meditation is beneficial to humans as well, and practitioners have reported that it provides deeper connection to the universe and all living beings, as well as reducing anxiety and stress through the natural release of melatonin.
The other day, I went to a favorite park where I often run. It only opened back up again two weeks ago. Half of the park was still closed due to all the devastation, but the front part was open and I was able to find spots where I could get a closer view of Cane Creek. (In some areas there were even creek access points, but I am still not comfortable going in the water here because the water quality was so compromised by Helene.) As I was photographing, I noticed the moon was rising behind the trees and I was immediately drawn to it. I stayed until it got dark and felt a sense of calm come over me that I haven’t experienced since the storm hit. I was particularly moved by the broken branches that were curved upwards and seemed to be reaching for the moonlight. I felt a deep connection with them, as I am striving to find equilibrium from all that has happened this fall. The land I love has been harmed and that in turn has hurt me. Together, the landscape and I are embarking on a process of healing. It will take a while, but every day I and the Earth around me look to the natural order to heal our wounds.
Branches Framing Destruction While Looking Towards a Distant Light
Whenever I am in the woods, I feel held by the branches of the trees. When I stepped beyond the piles of river dirt that had accumulated on the banks and saw this view of all that was toppled, I did not feel entirely hopeless since I still experienced a sense of beauty and balance in all the chaos. It almost seemed like the creek and injured trees were being held by the arms of the trees that were still standing. The salmon clouds lifted my spirits through their warm and inviting color, and I knew the water was gently flowing again and no longer raging.
Convergence of Hope and Despair
In the past, I often stopped at this convergence of the main creek and a smaller tributary to enjoy the view of the mountains beyond. It always feels like such a peaceful spot to me and it did this day too, although it was tinged with sadness. While I was setting up my tripod to make this image, I met a grandmother and her three or four year-old grandchild. They’d come in search of the Winnie-the-Pooh tree, a tree, where people put offerings to Milne’s characters in the hollow at it’s base. This child had come with an offering for Tigger. The grandmother asked me if I knew where the tree was, and I said I was pretty sure it was gone since I hadn’t come across it either. So many trees had been ripped out of the soil and tossed into what became a raging river during Helene. We commented to each other how tragic it all was. They went off to see if they could find a substitute tree for him to leave his offering and I went back to gaze on this confluence, where it felt more open and as if it would be possible for me to envision a future where all that had been harmed was converted into energy for new growth. But that will to happen if we don’t change our behaviour and tread more likely upon the Earth.
Memories of What Was–Severed Roots with Remaining Green Vegetation
The violence that was inflicted on my chosen hometown by the power of water remains difficult to fathom. Whole trees were flung about like dominoes, while some snapped leaving parts of their trunks and the root balls below. My mind was challenged trying to figure out which trees were gone or what other damaged trees once looked like. My memories were jumbled and I felt sad that I couldn’t fully honor what has been lost, since the annihilation was so widespread that I couldn’t reconstruct how it looked before from what remained and what was in the creek below. I knew a lot had floated away, gone from the land and my imagination. Everything in the park was affected. Besides that little boy not knowing where his Pooh tree went, the dugout, bleachers, and fences from the baseball field are totally gone. The tennis and pickle ball courts are crumpled, and there are huge mounds of river mud where grass should be. At the same time, it wasn’t all hopeless. There was still some remnants of green vegetation and people were there walking their dogs or running, trying to make the best of a difficult situation by enjoying what was left.
Space for Breathing After Helene–Serenity on Cane Creek
This image sums up the dichotomy I experienced between hope and despair. The bank of the creek where I was standing was uneven, the thick, uneven sand piles festooned with dead leaves, and broken branches. The opposite bank was lined with a huge fallen tree, and another one spanned the creek. Yet the landscape was bathed in the gentle glow of a late fall sunset and the light of the moon was becoming more pronounced as darkness descended. Tomorrow, this creek and I would both still be here and for that I was grateful. There were no guarantees for how long we would endure, especially since protection for small creeks and streams is being rolled back and incentives for burning fossil fuels are being withdrawn. Next year, I don’t know how this creek and I will appear, or the year after. My broken wrist will heal and my scar will fade, but no doubt other physical ailments will befall me. Some of these trees will become homes for other creatures, some may be removed so the water keeps flowing, while others and eventually I will return to the soil. But for now, I’ll honor and find peace in what remains. As Dewitt Jones taught me long ago, it is always important to look back before you leave a place and say thank you. It feels especially important now to express gratitude to a natural world that still allows us to make our homes here and does its best to keep surviving despite the influence of our presence.