The story goes, when Siddhartha, also known as the Buddha, awoke, Mara, who carries all the forces antagonistic to awakening, challenged him, “Really, you think you’re awake?” “This earth is my witness,” replied the Buddha.. And he touched the earth, which seemed enough of an answer.
Earth Day. Right now the guys are trenching for irrigation in what has heretofore been mostly sand and rocks, except for the topsoil lying newly on top, not enough, but some. The top of the earth is usually beautiful soil, if leaves have fallen on it, worms have crawled through it, and rain has fallen on it. But where we live in Michigan, it’s basically one big sand dune. Unless you want random tufts of crab grass, you have to irrigate.
And then again, in the process of renovating the huge former asylum where we live, a whole lot of lead-based paint was scraped off the walls, and apparently a lot of it was pushed into the small plot I’m committed to. Maybe asbestos, also, who knows? The soil is“the worst I’ve ever seen,” said the irrigation guy. There’s a rubber shield a foot or two down to indicate, don’t dig any lower. Keep the bad stuff underneath. We’re bringing in heaps of soil, bags of soil, bags of compost.
If the earth was the Buddha’s witness, I hope it was good earth, not this mess.
As I write this, it’s Earth Day. I’m feeling a bit optimistic. I just read that the proposed Line 5 Pipeline across the Straits of Mackinac may be able to be ruled out because of the Environmental Protection Act. There are a lot of good things happening besides fresh topsoil.
I’m excited at the prospect of flowers. Of grass, even.
Here is what’s called the Hippy tree, back in the woods. Graffiti is not what the woods want, I guess, but when I see kids climbing around in the branches, I think, how primitive, how worshipful, the way the florescent paint stains the woods for the light coming through, to make a deep multicolored place, a secret place. An awesome place, as in place of awe.
Soil is a secret, itself. It seldom shows itself on the surface. It sends green, tan, multicolored blooms to deflect your attention from the brooding work it’s doing, the weight of its lifting to the light what forms in its depths. It breathes its minerals, its organic matter, its water, its rich air into the atmosphere. It smells like ripe discontent, like wanting to do something, wanting to grow something.
I’ve had gardens. Not very elaborate ones, but something, in every house I’ve lived in. I’ve sweat over clay-ey soil, sandy soil, I’ve chopped through roots, I’ve fertilized. I’ve tied strings for tomatoes. I’ve dead headed petunias and marigolds. It seems natural to do this, as if the urge arose through me, from my ancestors—plant, plant, plant. Plant plants, plant children in the world, watch them bear fruit. It’s not as if I’m doing anything to the earth; it’s the earth, giving directions for its survival.
P.S. If you happen to read this today, you might want to register for the panel on poetry, with Thomas Lynch, Anne-Marie Oomen, Jim Daniels, and me, hosted by Brilliant Books this evening. Link is https://www.brilliant-books.net/event/poetry-month-panel-discussion
