To most of the world, the dog days of summer are the end of August, when the earth swelters and the air suffocates, when the mercury rises seemingly with no end point and neither breeze nor rain breaks the oppressive heat.
For us, that time is now.
Of course, we can’t even plan for it anymore, not with the uncertainty that climate change has wrought. Time was, and not so very long ago, fewer than ten years, in fact, when our hottest days came at the end of June. July heralded the arrival of thunderheads, if not the rain to go with it, and by August our corner of the world was firmly into the swing of monsoon season.
This year, our monsoonal patterns began in the chilly days of spring, continued into late June . . . and have seemingly vanished for good and all. Today, there was not a solitary cloud in the sky until well after two o’clock this afternoon, and then only a few tiny wisps to the north, more scalding puffs of white-hot steam than carriers of clear cool rain.
All of our usual patterns have been upended, and our world feels tentative, unsettled and overburdened, our bodies stiff and brittle and ready to break beneath the weight of the oppressive heat.
We need to spend some time with the trees.
Their most immediate benefit is cooling shade, and a freshening of the hot stale air. But they also offer something much older: Wisdom, a teaching by example.
The weeping willows are themselves wise, all stern stuff and strong medicine, and yet gentle, forever a tree of tears. Do they weep for what is, and what is not? For the world they yet witness? Or are they tears of joy, of relief, of the mere fact of existence?
These days, I suspect that if they could speak to us, the answer would be “for all of these things.”
The willow is a hardy being: inquisitive roots that spread far and wide, seeking knowledge of the wider world; gentle boughs that bend to the winds to touch the earth; strong bodies and limbs that stand tall and strong and reach animatedly for the sky. They seem able to survive virtually anywhere across this land, and even in the face of already drastic changes to our climate, they still thrive.
They are adaptable.
And this is what the trees know: that we can survive much, much more than we know, if only we can bring ourselves to bend a little here, to sway a little there, to go with the flow of the water that sinks below ground and that which lashes us from above . . . to dance with the winds instead of trying to fight them.
This is what the trees know.
It’s a lesson our peoples have learned perforce, hence our continued presence here today. But it’s a lesson of which all people, ourselves included, need to be reminded regularly.
Change is coming, on winds blowing from all directions. If we would continue to stand, if we would not break, we must learn to dance with them.
We must learn what the trees know.
~ Aji
All content, including photos and text, are copyright Wings and Aji, 2016; all rights reserved. Nothing herein may used or reproduced in any form without the express written permission of the owners.
