Of Mother Nature, Men, and Mythologies, by Abi Vanover

Shortly after I began my walk to the woods, I passed a cedar tree. I stopped and broke off a small twig, inhaling deeply. Cedar trees had begun to take on a special significance for me during my summer in Michigan, when someone I loved there told me about his love for cedar trees. I know the shape of their branches and their smell now; for as long as I remember them I think I’ll remember my memories of him.

I noticed more of my surroundings as I walked. A fat tabby cat sunning in a driveway, pawprints frozen in concrete, wild onions growing in many yards (how did they get there? Are they like Kentucky bluegrass, spread by “the particular mixture of forces represented by the cow, plow, fire, and axe of the pioneer”?). The closer I walked to the woods, the more birds I began to hear in the distance, replacing the singular drone of cicadas. I was close to my spot by the water when a fox ran across my path, red and almost fat. It felt auspicious.

I arrived at my spot and settled in for my watch. There was a dragonfly skimming low over the water, chasing all the tiny ripples. I could hear a bullfrog further upriver, and the sounds of two catbirds going back and forth. I could hear and see leaves drop around me, and irregular plinks as acorns dropped from the big oak tree a few yards away. It reminded me of Indiana, where my yard was full of oaks, and the sound of acorns hitting the ground almost sounded like the steady patter of rain. As I watched, I saw two squirrels race down the trunk, chittering.

At this point I noticed I was frequently itching my right thigh. It wasn’t just the cedar tree that reminded me of Michigan—so did the mosquito bites that were rapidly swelling. I took a breath and willed myself not to itch. It was of course easier said than done.

There was a sandbar close to my spot, littered with dead oak leaves. I walked out onto it, the water flowing past me. I saw a frog swim away from me underwater—this was my first time seeing a frog kick on an actual frog. I kneeled on the ground and peered closer at the water to see what insect was making all those tiny ripples. They had long silver bodies and were using their legs to propel themselves along the surface of the water. I would later learn they were called water-striders, aptly enough. I also saw a single white feather floating on the water next to a cluster of dead leaves. Maybe it was a light summer feather, shed in preparation for colder days to come?

As I prepared to leave, a single dead oak leaf floated down in front of me. It was then only fitting that the first tree I noticed as I walked home was a holly tree, it’s leaves sharp and its berries still green.

There are many legends and myths about nature across almost all human cultures. In Christianity, men have dominion over all things plant and animal; “Abraham knew exactly what the land was for; it was to drip milk and honey into his mouth.” In old Ireland the Oak King and the Holly King trade places throughout the Wheel of the Year (marked by the equinoxes); when all oak leaves die, the holly berries turn green. In Norse mythology, the squirrel Ratatosk runs down Yggdrasil, the tree of life, carrying messages between the heavens and the underworld.

Nature was written into the very fabric of humanity, placed alongside all that is holy. Today we’re playing Prometheus, putting poison into corn and children’s bodies, and clouds of toxic dusts waft across Kauai—volcano goddesses used to be worshiped there. Now the primary religion is capitalism.

I continued to walk, thinking about the upcoming equinox. I had written August on accident at the top of my page, thinking about summer while it’s almost fall. I passed another holly tree, and I wondered what the ne

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