Taking the time to wander daily around the backyard as a child became a life altering experience for me.
The variety of flowering shrubs in our small yard was astounding. There was a hedge of deep purple, lavender and white lilacs that ran along the property line to the east, clouds of fragrance wafting through the neighborhood over the Memorial Day crowds; the pale pink honeysuckle bush to the right of the garage with its sweet droplets of nectar; the fragrant crimson of the climbing roses enclosing the back porch, where potions of rose petals and lily of the valley berries were concocted. At the bottom of the steps lay the lid to the in-ground garbage pail, wreaking and writhing with maggots. Two crab apple trees showered a blizzard of blossoms each spring: hydrangeas in the alcove between the kitchen window and front porch in which to play house. There was a tumbling bridal bouquet spirea along the sundeck, and its unexpected little purple counterpart hiding in the shade next to it. Along the driveway was the billowing forsythia hedge, behind which was the cracked asphalt sidewalk where we crouched eavesdropping on conversations through the living room window.
On the other side of the driveway was the huge overgrown pink rhododendron that was our sometime playhouse with its large living room. Little bedrooms tucked off to the side in the lower branches, carpeted with long pine needles, and thick moss, interspersed with pale purple azalea and mountain laurel. Tommy Tree, a blue spruce planted on my brother’s 5th birthday, stood near a much larger spruce that was open on one side, providing a neighboring home to the rhododendron. I decorated it with red berries from the honeysuckle and the yew bush sitting on the stone wall, which oozed slimy clear goo reminiscent of clear snot when punctured by the needles of the tree.
We shared the space with robins and chickadees, finches and sparrows, a blue jay or two, and a rose breasted grosbeak separated from the rest of the migration during a storm. There were four or five squirrels, a large toad and a bale of turtles in a pen behind the garage (I worried at their proximity to the hole we were digging to China).
The closer I looked, the more I discovered; a bee gathering pollen; a fly washing its face, the spider weaving her web in the hydrangea; a colony of ants collecting bits of cracker, aphids sucking the life out of the honeysuckle, ladybugs munching upon the aphids.
Observing these insect behaviors quelled my fear of bugs.
In the late sixties it was decided that something needed to be done about the insect population in our community. One fine summer evening, we pranced about the neighborhood in the fog that was meant to deal with the problem. The following morning, the rose breasted grosbeak lay dead on our back sidewalk, the toad under a bush.
After I die, I have every intention of sticking around and making my presence known to my loved ones. It’s one of the reasons I have worn a particular scent over the years, so my presence will be recognized.
But I wonder… having worked with young children over many years, I have come to know many who seem to have old souls, so very wise beyond their years. Rather than coming from a previous life, perhaps they are merely in tune with their spirit guides. And if we are to survive as a species, more of us need to whisper in guidance; teach them to become fully aware of their surroundings rather than focused on the mind-numbing minutiae that seems to have dropped a dark net over our humanity.
My child spirit, (or perhaps it is my spirit guides) remains with me always. It has not occurred to me that perhaps rather than become part of some “great unknown” after this life, our purpose is to bring forward the awareness of the spectacular beauty, kindness, and interconnectedness of this world.
Ruth Witte, 2015, 2018