Last Sunday, Dan and I visited our favorite place: The Morton Arboretum. With each visit, the Arboretum becomes more of a special place in our hearts. It has been a place for us to be with one another without the distractions of our normal routine closer to the city. It has been a place for us to learn about nature together. To learn about trees, plants, animal life, and culture. It has been a place for us to feel kinship with the animals and trees and strangers. It has been a space for us to be peaceful, to reflect, to talk, to laugh, to walk... it has been our own bit of "Walden" perhaps.
As we entered the grounds that Sunday, birdsong immediately filled our ears with pleasant conversation. We started with a stroll around one of the lakes, Meadow Lake, and a friendly bird chirped with a very unique sound that echoed throughout the Meadow, as if to greet all the passers-by, saying s/he was, like us, happy too.
(I would like to learn more about birds. I have a feeling that I might, if Dan and I continue to seek out nature they way we do now. If we make it a habit. I think we will.)
As we made our way around the lake and further into the land, a squirrel came begging for scraps. It was adorable. It begged as if it were little puppy. This isn't typical of squirrels around our neighborhood, who seem to be so frightened of human interaction and scurry away quickly as soon as our bodies with their shadows and shoes approach. But this Arboretum squirrel was not afraid in the least.
When I dropped a few of my chocolate-chip cookie crumbs, this squirrel didn't hesitate to run up to Dan and I and munch, munch, munch. It was less than a foot away from us; we could have pet it. Maybe next time. But we did name this particular squirrel Gus-Gus.
We continued to walk, coffees in hand, the energizing liquid warming our throats and palms amidst the cool breeze. The sun shined above us, it's light gently warming our faces. The trees, waking up from winter slumber, seemed to yawn pleasantly as they slowly awoke from dormancy, and our quiet footsteps became gentle and unhurried. In the quiet of nature, we calmed ourselves together, and spoke of how thankful we were for this day.
The flowering trees had already begun to sprout the new buds of flowers and the scent was intoxicating, filling us with some strange promise of renewal. And I realized that I agree with T.S. Eliot. April is indeed the cruelest month, forcing the world to melt and break and to begin growing once again, the warmth gnawing at it's outside, it's shell and skin and fur and bark, after a long winter of resting in the comfort of within. April says, it's time to come out and face the world fully, no hiding. But if April is cruel in this way, it is it's ending, its transition into May, that is sweet. Less cruel, more confident, and steady, steady, steady.
In the dead of winter of this year, we went to a Forest Therapy Walk. One of the lessons we learned is that every tree has a story. If you study it, just by looking and listening, you could make one up yourself. This time we came upon a particularly interesting tree, which grew up and up and up from the same roots and stump, yet split, early on in its journey upwards, into two different trunks. It's foundation, however, remains one and the same. I might be inspired to write a story about this tree sometime, some comment on solitude and respect, or on the ability for there to be two individual parts of one complete whole. Something connected from its beginning, separated during the middle, only to meet once again at the highest points.
I found a meadow and I wanted to sit it in it, so we did. I like meadows. Illinois has a lot of them, these big expanses of grass. Lots of room for running and reading and sleeping. For sitting and for meeting.
This museum of trees, this place where trees from all over the world are brought to be saved, to be bred, to be studied, to be taken care of, is not a place free from its inherent wilderness. Actually, since it is a place where the wild knows it can be safe, it becomes a kind of Eden for both plant life and animal life. Deer hide deep in the woods of the Arboretum, turtles thrive in it's lakes and ponds (we saw one large turtle sunbathing on a rock in the middle of the lake, and then a family of about five on another rock, sunbathing as well), squirrels beg for chocolate-chip cookies, birds of all kinds fly over it, fish splash around... and so death must also be a part of its ecosystem.
Dan and I explored the grounds off the regular path (which is allowed) and found a skeleton. A goose, maybe.
Maybe a wolf killed it over the winter and the body, covered in snow, was never found by the Arboretum scientists. Maybe the birds ate all the meat heartily. I wonder now if anyone will "clean" it up off of the ground.
When Dan and I explore here, we don't talk as much as we do elsewhere. Our chatter subsides and we are really with each other. We see each other and we feel close. I'm really excited about learning the science of trees and plants and animals here with him. When we can start naming things. When we can start bringing more of it's essence home (which we already do).
The fragrant magnolia tree...! Medicine for our minds.
After a few hours of exploring, Dan urged me to take the Tram Tour. I didn't want to. It was too quiet and calm... but he convinced me and so we did. I didn't regret it one bit.
We learned about the man who made this amazing place, Joy Morton. The same guy who is the name of Morton Salt! The same man whose father created Arbor Day in the United States. That's the man who created this wonderful space where we will be celebrating our marriage. We learned how huge the place is, we found the library, we saw collections of evergreens and more lakes and collections of different types of flowering trees... we found out that the Arboretum is trying to create spaces that actually recreate what Illinois would have looked like before the colonies. Prairies. Forests.
More to come.
- F
