131 ~ Reclaiming Eden

Or, ‘When life hands you apples...’

            The metaphorical Adam and Eve weren't driven out of the Garden of Eden, they were simply fitted with blinders, or perhaps afflicted with amnesia. They could no longer see, or remember, the abundant Eden that surrounded them, and which surrounds us still.

Their myopia or amnesia is our inheritance, and humans continue to struggle with poverty consciousness. Recovering from it, and rediscovering the Eden we have always had may be our most important task. Love can't live and breathe in a field of 'not enough'. Most conflicts, whether between individuals or nations, start from an illusory poverty consciousness.

            Maintaining an awareness of abundance is not always easy in the midst of the challenges of daily life, and regular reminders are helpful.  Consequently, I'm grateful for a recent discovery that helped reorient me to the rich generosity of the world. It started, as do many things these days, with trout. A few years ago I explored one of the most inaccessible streams in the Driftless Area, fished it, and did very well (now we're talkin' Eden...)  I recently decided it was time for a return visit.

            After a shift of guiding tours at Taliesin, then an evening movie in the Wright-designed Hillside Theatre, I drove west into Vernon County, and by about midnight was parked and asleep in the back of my Subaru along the road closest to the stream of interest. An early start in the morning was on order, given that reaching this water is a bit of a project. Also, whether or not some trespassing might now be required to find the stream was not entirely clear... and so best to move very early.

            Before sunrise had cleared the Driftless hills the long, dew-wet grass of a late summer meadow was swishing against my waders. It took about 40 minutes to hike to the stream - not remote by, say, western US standards, but pretty much the outback boonies for southern Wisconsin. The dark pink flowerheads of Joe Pye weed and yellows of compass plants and goldenrods lit the way, constellations in the meadow. I love the rich, grounded colors at the cusp of autumn. Color for poets in black.  

            Like any good trout stream, I heard it first. Trout water has tumbling movement, and the first sensory experience as you approach is usually the sound of the stream, the music. It's like approaching a concert hall while the musicians are warming up. And the song is saying, is telling you, 'Come, there are trout here', and it trips the first release of adrenalin. Ulysses knew the feeling.

  This stream flows through a beautiful little open valley, framed by thick woods on valley slopes. No sign of human habitation or regular use. God knows when another fisherman was last here. The late, great fishing writer John Gierach gave as the title of one of his books, All Fisherman Are Liars. I'll add one more: most fishermen are lazy. It doesn't take much effort or trekking to leave behind the boot prints of most other fishermen.

            On this magnificent morning, in this place, the fishing should have been magnificent. But as they say, it's called ‘fishing’ not ‘catching’ - that is, no guarantees. And on this day things were very, very slow. The late season water was low, and what remained was mostly filled from the bottom up with weeds, leaving in most stretches just a few inches of free water above. Trout were probably here, but hunkered in the weed beds, unreachable. More than an hour of careful wading and careful casting yielded nothing.

             Time for a break from the futility, and I reached into a side pocket of my creel for something that's part of my usual kit, a book. Appropriate for this 67 year-old trout bum, this time it was Hemingway's classic The Old Man and the S[tr]ea[m].  As a red-tailed hawk kept company, soaring above with its own wild song, I sat along the bank in the morning sun and read this exchange between the old man, Santiago, and the boy who helped him:

"Keep warm old man", the boy said. "Remember we are in September."

"The month when the great fish come," the old man said. "Anyone can be a fisherman in May."

            Alas, no great fish this time, not yet in September. I fished for another hour after the reading break, and again had not a single take from a trout. Santiago went 84 days without a fish, and my couple of hours of complete skunk on this stream felt about the same. It was my worst trout outing in a couple of years. I eventually accepted the bust of the expedition, closed my rod, and started the walk back through the valley toward the car. Not exactly the Promised Land (or Water) I'd hoped for.

            But consolation was at hand. As I wended my way, dissecting in my head what went wrong with the fishing, and how deficient the world was today, up ahead I saw red framed in green - a feral apple tree.  As readers may know, I'm fond of feral apples. Free food! (have you seen the price of organic apples lately...). And at our best, we're all like feral apple trees - a bit wild and independent, and also deeply good and nourishing, and resilient.

            I keep an eye out for feral apples in autumn, and so it was welcome to come upon this tree. And where you find such trees, it's a signpost of history. At one time there was likely a farmhouse near where any feral apple grows today, and the tree would have fed the family. Who once lived in this now-empty valley?  

As I drew closer, I saw that the branches absolutely sagged with perfect, unblemished fruit. Not waiting for nor needing a serpent to tempt me, I took a bite and met one of the finest apples I've ever tasted; tart/sweet with a complex flavor reminiscent of cardamom. Given the abundance and quality of fruit, it's one of the best feral apple trees I've ever found. And given the morning, certainly the most memorable.

So much for a dud of an outing. Into my trout-empty creel I packed about ten pounds of apples. As I picked them I thought about the farm boy or girl who probably picked apples from this same tree many years ago. What became of them, and where they might be today if still alive?  This apple tree connected us in a small yet tangible way.

            As I finished the walk back to the road, the heavy weight of the creel, heavier than it's ever been with fish, was a reminder of the abundance of the world. Not always in ways I expect or demand (such as trout on this morning), but in ways that will still nourish if I remain open and willing. My bite of the apple didn't get me kicked out of Eden, but brought me back to it, to my awareness of it.

           Each of us lives in the center of an infinitely abundant universe, so what could be missing? Only, sometimes, our awareness of it. And so stay in love with the task of remembering and seeing the richness of the world - with an abundance of gratitude each time you find it again.

An event!: Speaking of, my friend (and Acadian homey) Karen Ellzey Wright is a splendid artist who is keenly attuned to the abundance of the natural world. This Friday, September 12, is the opening of a new show of her work, "prairie imaginary", at the Spring Green Community Library, 3:30 - 5:00 pm. This will be followed by a wine & cheese reception with the artist at Convivio in Spring Green, 5:00 - 6:30 pm. All are welcome to both, and I hope many of you in the area can be there! If not, note that “prairie imaginary” will remain on exhibit at the library through September 30.