Monday was the 33rd anniversary of Earth Day. Funny to have a day dedicated to taking care of our planet. Congress declared April 22 Earth Day, January 16 National Fig Newton Day and November Fun with Fondue Month. Almost every day of the year is dedicated to some food item.
I remember the first Earth Day in 1970. I was ten. My family spent the day picking up trash along the road. Stalking the Wild Asparagus by Euell Gibbons had become a household name. My mother, my first naturalist and teacher, was reconnecting with the world she had learned to love through her grandfather. She had and still has a curiosity about nature. My mother was eager to teach us kids about morel hunting, wooly bear caterpillars and chickadee songs. We took family walks through the vast forest which held our house in a soft embrace. We learned about pine pitch, oak leaves and how to read the signs of trampled leaves that showed us the way along mostly forgotten wood roads.
All these experiences felt like tiny presents, secrets that unfurled before me like the intricate folds of a spring wildflower, more amazing, colorful and surprising as it opened.Is this when I first fell in love? Was it climbing a pine tree to the very top branches, pine pitch gluing me to its limbs? Perhaps while my sister and I were spending hours building a lean-to of broken branches and an old tarpaulin? I think so. I know so.
So much like a first love, she has remained pure, closest to my heart. What name shall I use? What do I call that which gives every time I open my eyes, every time I listen? Nature, Mother Earth, Gaia, "all that is above, below and all around"? Being in love with nature sounds so awkward as if I am in love with a chair instead of embraced by a vibrant knowing.
For this gift I thank my mother, Eleanor.
