My favorite sanctuary in my hometown is The Living Desert. The wide sidewalks and shady trees amidst the desert landscape and circle of purple brown mountains is an easy escape from my wall to wall workaday week. I have the proud distinction of being the 1001st member. I wish I'd gotten in ahead of that other person and achieved that nice round number, but since they now have thousands of members world wide I am fortunate to recall a time when it was just me and a few shady sidewalks weaving through the ravens and coyotes cradled in a botanical heaven.
In my twenties, I nursed my babies under the generous arms of the cottonwood trees. In the Spring cotton drift mounded on the walkways. My children gathered them in billows and twisted them into tight threads. On the hottest days Grandmother Cottonwood provided sweet shade, a cooling upward gaze and lofty protection from the too bright sky. Over the years, I've introduced numerous friends to The Living Desert always stopping before the largest entrance tree, proudly ushering us into our adventure. During times of stress, I've pressed my cheek against her asking for courage and endurance. Her grandness was a reassurance that Life, no matter how painful, provided shelter and strength.
Last week, while taking my weekly rejuvenating walk I realized that something was different. There was a hole in my view. Sky where something had been. Oh no. My heart fell so fast I was afraid to turn and look. The buckling sidewalk where her great roots had grown was there. With horror, not too big a word, I saw that She had been cut to an enormous stump. Stump. That was me. Stumped, stopped, stooped. The involuntary cry that escaped me was keening - the Celtic word for the animal sounds we make when we are in full grief.
I was with my husband who was saddened but retrospect. "There must have been a problem because their wasn't room for a tree this large. Look at the damage to the sidewalk." His words rang hollow in my ears. True were his words, gone was my heart.
There is only so much time for walks on the weekend. Only so much time to give the living body a chance to swing its arms and legs, take in the fresh air and move forward. I wanted to stop and lie on the ground. The child inside wanted to wail and protest. My older self was present, watching this desire. My older self knows about loss and change, the necessity of life being exactly as it is. The elder Deborah heard the child, felt the innocent anguish of the body. The elder Deborah said "it's okay to feel the pain but don't look too long."
There is something about aging that puts a measure on things. It was shocking to know that deep in my heart ,with the wisdom of a Dutch uncle , no matter what the loss, I could pause, I could feel, and that I must keep walking forward. The voice of wisdom continued, and with shaky legs and a heavy heart I continued past the stump. "Look up Deborah, keep looking around you. There is beauty. Let your grief allow you to take in this moment that is gifting you with its Presence."
So I looked. I saw the less grand but achingly beautiful branches of the Palo Verde tree, the abundant rugged Mesquite, the quiet medicine of the lavender and creosote bush. I found a friend who works at the park and he explained that all of the old cottonwoods had been cut down. Oh! Necessary because their heavy branches were falling without warning. Fortunately no one had been killed. One branch had crushed the entrance to the aviary already. No birds were injured. Good fortune was present in the loss.
My experience of becoming a wiser woman is distilled in part by this story. My younger self was able to grieve, to experience unbearable sadness, injustice, judgment, anger and pain. My older self is more present to allow the larger picture to unfold. The necessity, in this case, for the crushing blow of cutting the trees to prevent the crushing inevitability of a larger loss. Perhaps all losses contain the seeds of a larger acceptance, the possibility of a larger knowing. The cottonwoods are gone from the park. I run my hand along the rough circle of the stump. I remember the precious shelter, allow the bittersweet feelings, thank Her for the memories, and then I walk on.