The Gift of Breathable Air – Fire and Air – Before the Turning by Sara Wright

In the last two hours the air has finally cleared – clouds, light drizzle (the blessing of even a few drops of rain) and sweetly scented air allows my nose to pick up the intoxicating fragrance of the lemon lilies on my porch – For the last 40 hours we have been breathing dead air – or death air as I call it. Headaches for me, and sneezing coughing dogs force me to keep the windows closed, the porch door shut, and unless it is necessary, we stay inside.

 All of us are so sensitive to atmospheric changes…

This time the pollution comes from Canadian wildfires – nine million acres of forests are still burning. When I emailed a friend about the air in Montreal she quipped how the air had cleared and the US had exaggerated the problem (not one word about the fate of the trees – this well-known feminist woman considers herself an environmentalist). I wondered just how accurate her assessment was because here in Maine the air was not breathable, and the blue skies were only softened by haze. I didn’t need the clean air index to tell me that we were all breathing poison. Just the thought of more burning forests ANYWHERE chills me leaving me in a state of profound despair.

I know from 40 years of experience how useless it is to advocate for trees -people treat them like wallpaper – unless the background gets unsightly no one notices or cares. I wonder what will happen when we can no longer breathe. So called environmentalists/ ecologists/choose your title/ don’t even realize how many are diseased or dying. This year we are losing our beech and oak trees apparently to terminal diseases. There is something distinctly sinister about witnessing dying trees with withered leaves when we are so busy slaughtering so many, and others are burning. The one hope I have is that on Mary’s and Larry’s protected (almost thirteen thousand acres of forest and streams) there is little damage. So far. Could so much diversity help the affected trees to develop the necessary defenses to survive? Simply walking through an intact forest mindfully (or living in a small one like I do) helps our bodies deal with stress. It’s worth repeating that normally the air is amazingly sweet unless blanketed by human induced poisoning.

I never took clean air for granted even as a child because my nose needs scents to help keep her attached to moist woods and meadows, brooks and streams. To Life.

To forests I love.

Best of all I can smell my flowers again! What a relief.  I don’t know how badly polluted air suppresses the scent of flowers but it does. It seems to act like a toxic blanket dulling all senses.

Another fragrant bouquet sits in my recently open window wafting perfume my way… From my point of view, Dames Rocket is a wildflower everyone should have. Once I had many of these plants but these lovely phlox -like flowers are disappearing – I originally started my collection by gathering a few from a lowland near an abandoned farmhouse – Now that the water table is so much lower it is drier around the house, and I have fewer plants except around the miniature frog pond.

Maine. Gov called these ‘noxious weeds’ and encourages the use of an herbicide or burning to get rid of them. Obviously, Maine. Gov. doesn’t pay attention to the habitat these wildflowers need to grow… you will only find clusters in low moist areas. (Getting rid of them is as simple as pulling up the shallow roots, not allowing them to seed in or allowing climate change – a warming planet to take its toll). Naturally, Dames Rocket is also on the ‘invasive’. species list… ‘very invasive’ according to Maine. Gov.

No one remembers Pangea, when all continents were ONE. 

The wars our culture thrives on extend to Native or New England plant sites. The pitting of ‘us against them’ mentality is rampant. Note my deliberate use of the word WAR. It is taken directly from public discourse and describes the attitude people take towards ALL invasive plants. This morning I read about butterfly bush now considered yet another invasive. I think of all this tribal fragmentation as a form of ethnic cleansing. 

Our crippled/distorted culture is at WAR with people, animals, insects, and plants – apparently everything but robots – Insanity reigns. End of rant.

It is eight days away from the summer solstice and already the fruit trees are dropping tiny yellowing petals, their fruits starting to seed up. The Spring Greening is at its peak thanks to a series of late spring days with ongoing drizzle. Lately, not much real rain. Brooks and rivers are not overflowing. Many of my wildflowers have gone by; a few are still to come. Late blooming anemones, lemon lilies, circles of blue, yellow and white Iris, dames rocket, buttercups and more columbine continue to open as these precious days slip by. Today I am being serenaded by vireos and robins, a few grosbeaks and the phoebes are diving in and out of their nest above the door all day long. I’m sure they have a family to feed, but I cannot find out for sure without being intrusive.

The ravens all sound the same now; the youngsters have lost their baby voices. Yesterday, the three kings arrived for a surprise visit. I hope these turkey friendships will teach me more about how the species behaves as a whole. The rose breasted grosbeaks are feeding fledglings, the cardinal seduces his mate for a second time feeding her seeds, and clicks in annoyance (or fury when the sound gets louder and louder) when I am not instantly outside the door with food for this most determined ground feeder. He is the only one of my regulars that refuses to adapt to the constraints of a squirrel protected metal feeder. All the other larger birds have figured out a way to get to the seed.

Yesterday three Hairys (woodpeckers) were hanging from the feeder at once! On a wet gray day like today I gaze up into earthly emerald, lime, burgundy and sage; the canopy over my head is dripping with raindrops. The air is so sweet I want to drown myself in this moment.

I stand by the frog pond gazing affectionately at fat wood frog tadpoles who sound like whales the second they see my shadow but return for a second look. And once they know it’s me, they float lazily on the surface. The soon to be froglets seem to be thriving on red lettuce, and as more sweet air fills my lungs and as I breathe in ever more deeply and the brook sings I give thanks for the gift of air. Like never before. May the memory of magical damp spring days sustain me through the inevitable steamy, probable unbreathable, summer ahead.