Page 93 - Dark Matter:Women Witnessing Issue #3 - December 2015
P. 93

Dark Matter: Women Witnessing - December, 2015 Issue #3 - EXTINCTION / DEVOTION







In our long drought, rain manifests as “Not Raining”—its essence conveyed through absence. When 

have we—rain and I—ever been so familiar, as through this thirsty longing? Over and over I bring it 

close, smell what I remember of it, taste its clearness, hear its patter, the gush through gutters, feel it 


cover my upturned face and trickle, wet and cool, down my neck.



This Morning



An act of faith: I fill a brown ceramic bowl, small enough to discourage bathing, with cold clear water 


and pledge to sterilize it daily. Now I wait to see.



This is an act of self-forgiveness. The softening of all or nothing, the thawing of paralysis from guilt. A 

recognition of nature’s resilience. A few small birds have recently perched on the railing, peeked in my 


windows, pecked in the duff.



This Moment



As I keep watch for birds, a redbud sapling taps and brushes 


at the glass door, calls my attention. A little tree in a three- 

gallon container that I left to die—I couldn’t justify the water in 


this severe drought. The tree is not edible, not native, and the 

conservation guidelines suggest no. But it clung to life in 

desiccated soil, leaves unfurling despite neglect, heart- 


shaped and green. They quiver like alpine aspens.



This sapling seems to ask – can it stand sentry by my door? 

It has branches perfectly sized for songbirds’ tiny feet. Who 


am I to say no, to be so stingy? Right action is complicated: 

what was a green thumb has become extravagance as we 

shift from nurturers to conservators of resources.



Yet life wants to be lived, to green out. Guidelines are good, but rigidity becomes a drought of spirit. 


Can I say “yes” to this one redbud spreading its tiny boughs? For returning warblers to alight upon? A 

being that can live on recycled water from the bird basin?


Can I say “yes” to songbirds splashing and sipping as they slowly return? Count them - one by one, two 

by two.








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