This last flood remade the canyon bottom with its fifteen foot walls of water and the huge tree bodies spinning down the current…. where there were straight lines now there’s curves, where there were trees, the ground has been stripped…. There’s several feet of new earth in some places, building up the ground so that there’s an entirely new landscape. Events like this can leave me disoriented and grieving, and some big part of my nature clings to sameness and hominess of always. Yet I know that’s not how nature and life works, that everything is always in flux, moving and removing until a temporary balance is achieved before it all begins again.
In the arroyo, huge boulders were moved and all the little valleys were filled in by gravel… Makes for a smoother walk but my plants are buried, the Beebalm and Sweet Clover covered over in a rocky grave. I have to resist the urge to get down on my knees and dig it all out, to change it back to what I know and recognize. I have to remember this isn’t something I created, it’s not a garden. It’s a wild thing, unformed by human hands and with a will of its own. I let myself fall in love with the unpredictability and madness of it all, of the river that owns my heart.
In the Spring, the plants will surprise me, Evening Primroses will shoot out of broken rocks and the Beebalm will spurt out everywhere, defying stones and sand to surge towards the sun. In the meantime, I drink Nettles and Bear’s Claw as I watch the orange sun drift down behind snowy cliffs.