Go, look and listen

Saturday. Sofa. Coffee.

A perfect morning to sit on the sofa and drink coffee.  It is wet and cold and dark outside.  But here on the inside the heat pump hums gently in the background, a curl of coffee vapors climbs out of the pot and fills the room, and the sofa, conformed by many other mornings and evenings of our time together, calls me once again to sit down and get comfortable.

And so I do. At this time of morning on this kind of day I like to keep the house a little dark while I sit, the only light being the grey of early morning filtered through thick rainy clouds, and one lamp on the table next to the sofa, filling the corner of the room with soft light.

Even soft light reveals hard things. Light is light. It reveals truth. It extinguishes darkness.  And this morning, as I nestled into my comfortable place, the light was gently brutal as it directed my eyes.  There in the corner of the room, leaning against the wall for several months waiting to be hung, illuminated by the lone lamp in the room like a museum piece, was a block print by Birmingham artist Debra Riffe.  I bought it because it provoked me.  I suppose I let it sit out of the way for months because I did not want to be provoked.  But the light grabbed it this morning.  This lively, artful expression that so provoked me deserved better.  But it was hard to fit into my comfortable corner of the world, at least in a place high enough to be noticed.

This art form sometimes creates a look similar to a theater or concert poster.  In this print there stands an older African American man playing an acoustic guitar strapped around his neck.  The poster reads "I ain't fixin' ta sit down."

I do not presume to know what brought the man in the print to make that proclamation.  In my mind's eye I see the man to be of an age that our years of life would overlap, and so honestly, it would be willful ignorance if I could not form a general idea of reasons for his defiance or the message of his music.  

There are a few things I can learn from the print leaning against the wall of my den.  There are songs of life being sung all around us. It is important that there is time and space for the songs to be sung, but more importantly,  that those songs be heard by those who need to hear. 

But it is just a print.  Ink on paper.  I cannot hear the notes of the music being played, the specific words being sung by looking at the print.  The artist has done her job.  She provoked me to want to hear the old man's song.  Thank goodness for the light of this morning.

I must leave my comfortable corner to hear the songs. I might want to turn away.  I might want to sing along. 

But before I do anything, I must go and listen. 

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Can't see the forest for the trees, or is that poison ivy?

Saturday. Sofa. Coffee.

Last Saturday I worked in my yard. Actually it used to be my yard.  I like to think of it now as a second growth forest.  That's a real thing, look it up.  I'm thinking of putting up one of those dignified woodsy roadside signs at the foot of my driveway, maybe made of cedar, that declares my yard to be a Certified Alabama Second Growth Forest.  Not really.  I'm going back out there after while and get to work, just as soon as it gets hot enough.

Last Saturday I was cutting up a fallen tree.  After I finished I was not ready to put away my chain saw since it was running fine and one must take advantage of that good fortune when it arises.  At the edge of my once and future yard stands a hickory tree.  I really love trees, especially hardwoods, and in particular hickory and oaks, so no, I was not thinking about cutting down this beautiful tree.  On the contrary, I sensed that the time had come for a risky maneuver to save the life of the hickory.  Sure it was dangerous, but I had been putting it off for awhile.  It was time to slash the grossly monstrous vines that were attached to the tree like the sea creatures that made up Davy Jones beard in the Pirates of the Caribbean.   The ugly tentacles climbed and crept to the top branches, displaying the vines' oily deep-green leaves and clusters of berries like a pirate's flag at the top of a conquered mast.  There was no skull and crossbones.  But there should have been.  These vines were poison.  Poison Ivy.

Perhaps that's a little too dramatic.  But seriously, I am very sensitive to poison ivy resin and the mere thought of cutting through those hairy one and two inch vines was enough to shorten my breath and raise whelps on my skin.  On the other hand, I have seen what these insidious vines can do to otherwise healthy trees.  They kill them.  Slowly.  The green leaves of the vines become entangled with the leaves of the tree, so it is difficult to notice that the tree is dying, limb by limb, until it is too late, and most of the green that remains belongs to the poison vine, and not the tree that still supports the vine, even to death.  

I checked on the tree this morning.  Now it is easy to distinguish between the leaves of the choking vine and the leaves of the tree.  The leaves of the vine are now wilted and withered, all the way to the top of the tree.  I had no idea how far the poison vine had invaded the hickory tree.  I hope I cut the vine in time.

Last week I cut the big, hairy, ugly vines near the base of the tree.  The vines above the cut were dead this morning, all the way to the top of the tree.   But below the cut in the vine there was already new growth. Three leaves. One jag on one edge. Deep, oily green. Heading up the tree.  The vine is still rooted in the soil, just like the tree. 

And that's the problem.

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