Waiting for Rain
Once again, day breaks to reveal sunny blue cloudless skies. Not too long ago, I looked forward to such days: to long walks, to sitting on the deck sipping iced tea, to watching the Swallowtail butterfly drift from flower to flower, while enjoying the heart-warming sunshine. But for a few weeks now, the same clear skies have become a source of worry. All around me, the earth is thirsty.
We walk the woods on Sunday mornings, the air is heavy, and we drip with sweat. At first glance, the woods look like they always do, green; bright blue water shimmers in the lake, and it is hard to see the difference. A drought and here? Yet, there is evidence everywhere we choose to look. We see the truth on the shoreline, where the dark line left behind on the rocks by receding waters hovers high above the current water level in the lake. Once lilies and their pads floated joyously on the water, supported on invisible stems. Now while they have proliferated in the warmer weather, they appear still, unable to move, trapped by the swampy mud that surrounds them. We see the truth in the dry stream beds, where dark earth is the only remaining proof that water flowed here not too long ago. A Cardinal Flower, always a sign that water is near, has bloomed, its brilliant red flowers looking lonely without its gushing companion. The understory in the woods looks like it would at the end of October, dried and brown. Ferns which would once rustle against my legs as I walked past, are burnt to a crisp, and crunch underneath as I step on them. Only the muscular oaks, pines and beeches with their deep roots seem untouched, but perhaps they are only stoically hiding their stress.
My own garden has never looked like this before. Although the Sensitive Fern is so named because of its sensitivity to frost, it is the heat that has defeated it this time, and like the ferns in the woods, it too has given up the struggle, its brown stalks and leaves lying pitifully on the ground. The Maidenhair Fern, a gift from a friend, nestled in and protected by the dark shadow of a thick Viburnum, has lost all but one of its fan-shaped leaves. Even my hardy stalwarts, like the Butterfly weed and the Coneflower, look tired. And the Black-eyed Susan, always so spritely, has folded its leaves and petals, as if in surrender. My vegetable boxes and new plants are regularly watered, my policy always being to treat all others with tough love: a policy I am not sure how long I can continue. It is clear that my plants are feeling the stress, from the stately Rhododendron with its drooping leaves to the almost desiccated “Green-and-Gold.” Desperate to save some of them, I move the smaller plants from their spot to a more shaded area in the hope that this will help them survive. From a distance, my garden, like the woods, looks green, deceivingly green, but only from a distance.
Not far from where I live is a new subdivision, with homes set far back on expansive lawns. I have not yet learned to appreciate this aesthetic, and possibly never will; apparently, the more unchanging and greener the lawn looks, the more its value. Not for me, the static of this singular and artificial lawn, I would rather have a hundred different plants that display the changing face of nature in all its moods and seasons. Morning weekday walks in the neighborhood reveal acres of burnt lawn, dotted here and there with a rose bush. Lawn grasses with their measly shallow roots take the drought harder than any other plant. Every now and then, the russet and tan of the lawn is interrupted by patches of emerald green: some owners have decided to defiantly disregard the state law and water their lawn anyway. I wonder what they see when they look out of their windows: do their green lawns fill them with pride, do they not see the miles of parched earth on either side?
Twice the skies have deceived me. Once they displayed the theatrics of thunder: the boom and rumble starting late afternoon and continuing almost through the night, but providing a spectacle of no consequence. The next time, a rustling wind accompanied dark cloudy skies and teased us with a few drops. Rain! But not quite. Our gardens and woods continued to mourn the lack of water.
Finally, it rains, two days in a row.
And the earth quickly wakes up. The Black-eyed Susan opens up leaves and flowers in joy, roses send out new buds, the Rhododendron raises its leaves to the heavens as if in gratitude, even the lawns develop a sheen of green. Only my ferns refuse to recover. This rebirth is enough for people to forget the death that stared in the face a couple of days before, and the drought has become just a topic of conversation for years to come, if that. Once again, neighbors compete with each other for the best trimmed lawn with the prettiest roses. Landscape contractors, charged with keeping yards pristine, show up with their trucks. We want nature, they’ve been told, just make sure it’s not too natural. The neighborhood buzzes and hums with lawn-mowers. Landscape crews rush hither and thither, reseeding patches of dead grass, mowing and trimming lawns where the grass is green. We mourn nature when it dies, but as soon as it awakens, we rush to subjugate it.
A little rain, and the hard questions of a few days ago are pushed aside in the face of all this green glory and flurry of activity, both human and natural. It takes a walk in the woods to re-awaken them. For the rains may have fed my plants, and the neighbor’s lawns; gardens may have woken up, their thirst seems quenched, and people seem content. But is this enough? Not enough, whisper the woods. Not enough to feed our mighty oaks and pines. Not enough to revive the scorched ferns that have collapsed in the heat; not enough so that the stream by the lone cardinal flower flows freely once again; not enough for the lily pads and water lilies to bob gently on.
But the buzz of the lawn mowers, they make it difficult to hear this whisper.
