Renewal

A dogwood's invitation

Outside the bedroom window, a little too close to the porch, is a dogwood tree.

My wife and I have a competition in the spring to see who can best predict the date it will flower. I very clearly won this competition this year no matter muttered claims to the contrary. But then we both win, because it fills the view out the window with masses of white flowers (that are actually not flowers, but a different kind of leaf - how wild is that).

This tree has provided shelter for many birds and bugs and squirrels this year, as always. The hummingbirds rest there as they plot their next attack move at the feeder, and I linger for far longer than my ‘to do’ list allows, watching as their ruby throats flash back and forth.

Then one day in October, the feeder hangs without a visit from the feisty hummers, and I know they’ve moved on for another season. I mourn their departure a little. But it is not only hummingbirds who can flash color at the window. Just as the summer birds depart, sometime before Thanksgiving, the dogwood becomes magnificently, resplendently red. The morning sun sets it alight.

And then as the dogwood leaves become a deeper maroon and show me they will fall soon, I also mourn the leaves’ departure a little.

But now, as I write this, I am seeing the green and grey lichen-covered branches more clearly, and along with them, the return of our winter birds: the striped heads of white-throated sparrows, the sweet little grey and white juncos (‘snow birds’ to some), the yellow-bellied sapsuckers drilling their signature holes. And even the tree itself, apparently bare, has the tiniest buds already visible, preparing for the next new season even as this warm autumn feels like it has just reached a sudden end.

This tree and its village of temporary residents is a small, daily joy. Every day, in every season. It feels like a sacred gift, right there outside my window.

My work on climate change is often focused on what’s wrong – what might be destroyed, what’s broken, who will suffer, and what can’t be solved. And so many of us work in institutions or communities or on issues that feel like it’s a neverending list of things to ‘fix’. We worry, we work, we witness suffering, we dwell in uncertainty, and we get tired. I know and can feel the nation’s worry right now. I share it.

But this small dogwood’s seasonal promises change and renew me. It’s not a grand vista or a giant forest. It’s just a dogwood, a little too close to the porch.

But it’s a daily reminder to rejoice in what is, to start today with attention on the small things, to care and delight, to breath in the new season, to welcome the new colors and smells and views, to have faith in a cycle of regeneration, and no matter what ended yesterday, to have gratitude in the opportunity to begin again today.