In the poem “Place” W. S. Merwin begins, “On the last day of the world, I would want to plant a tree.” He goes on to explain he would plant it not for its fruit, but for its own sake. This little tree may never see the dawn of the next new day. It may never grow tall and offer shade on a sunbaked summer day. And it may never bear fruit, but Merwin believes it has value simply in being.
I understand this sentiment when I look out to the trees and the new green of leaves just beginning or even the multitude of weeds. I understand it with every window-stunned sparrow tended and every supine, legs-waving ladybug righted. I understand it most of all when I see gentle brown eyes gazing back into my own with quiet wisdom and mutual love.
Of course, this little tree remains greater than the sum of its fruit, leaves, or branches, for in planting it on the last day of the world, it’s a glimmer of faith, a repository of hope. Hope that just maybe there will come another dawn. And while hope pertains to future, and so takes us out of present moment awareness, it is a delicate thing and maybe necessary in the face of self-inflicted woes of war and climate change.
If hope points to future, gratitude speaks to what is—often the quiet moments in between doing. The two-toned light of yellow daffodils that color the yard in joy. The sound of birdcall. Barefoot walks. The first evening chorus of peepers in the cool air of sundown that belongs purely to spring. The smell of rain. Sparkle chasing the elusive squirrel; Stash rolling in the grass. As always, the little hounds ground me and bring me back to what matters: the raucous wren, the darting bunny, last year’s leaves that crunch under foot, croaking frogs in vernal pools, the clouds, the sky—the constant practice of living in the present moment.
Pink cherry and almond blossoms blow across the front lawn, while in the back the quiet quince holds onto its salmon buds. Fuchsia magnolia stands in contrast next to forsythia. The plum and viburnum offer white elegance against their gay and gaudy companions. Violets and vinca cover the earth in purple. Hyacinths pour forth their Easter scent. Soon, around the perimeter, redbud and rhodo will paint bold brush strokes against dogwoods lacey sleeves. Tulips, pansies, and more are a palette of wonder, a reminder daily that through sadness or joy, flowers are our steadfast companions.
When it seems like so much is wrong with the world, I think it helps to appreciate all that is right. Like when gazing into Sparkle’s soft brown eyes, I silently tell her, I love you, and without sound spoken aloud, she flaps her shortened tail. I am often surprised by people who say that animals don’t know or understand, when I see daily that they know and understand on a level in many ways superior to our own. True, my dogs have never written a concerto or painted the Mona Lisa, but they know things intuitively that I don’t even know I don’t know. They think in images and easily read our jumble of thoughts, so it’s also equally easy to understand why Stash scuttles under the bed at my mere thought of plunking her poop-stained body into the tub.
Then there is the bluebird couple who have taken up residence on the back porch. They’ve decided an old broken bluebird box is the home they want, no matter that there are two good ones, complete with baffles, out in the fields. They flap and flutter about; it’s just what they want, the housing market is hot, get it while you can. I can be talking or coming in and out and they don’t seem to mind; they know my attention is not on them. But just let me get my camera to try to get a photo of them together with their newfound real estate, and they watch me, keeping far away. It seems, no different from the dogs, these bluebirds also loathe having their pictures taken and can easily read both my intention and my thoughts.
And so, these precious days pass, one after another. In between its eddies, life pools in the shallow spaces. There is the daily routine: the dogs, the birds, the flowers and the trees, the tiny insects and the life unseen. Shoo the wren out of the house. Nudge the snake out of the house. Pick herbs from the garden. Pause for tea. The simple things, for gratitude, not desire is the foundation of joy. Out in the pure air, their noses in dirt, the two dogs find delight in the moment, the earth offering everything they need for contentment. I turn my attention from politics and the calamities humankind has wrought to marvel at their daily joy, and this too, like the tree on the last day of earth, is all the meaning from life I need.
On the last day of the world
I would want to plant a tree
what for
not for the fruit
the tree that bears the fruit
is not the one that was planted
I want the tree that stands
in the earth for the first time
with the sun already
going down
and the water
touching its roots
in the earth full of the dead
and the clouds passing
one by one
over its leaves
Sparkle & Stash on the bench in the Spring morning air.
Tulips, vinca, and pansies ground me in what matters.
Soon, the violets will blanket the yard.
Can you tell we really hate being made to pose before the April flowers?
Stash tramples the first violets.
Sparkle & Stash hunt as St. Francis looks on.
The daffodils are always the first to show their smiling faces.
Hope breeds eternal.
Stash getting ready to hunt.
Where’s my treat?
Gentle brown eyes gazing back into my own with quiet love.
And return to quiet peace.