“They paved paradise, put up a parking lot.”
Big Yellow Taxi, Joni Mitchell, 1970
It is a cold, bleak, soaked morning as I peer over my city-suburban landscape. Barren, though rooftops fill my view. Something is missing; something which transcends early morning java chat over office desks, social media posts, war highlights and desktop weather alerts.
“There is unrest in the forest, there is trouble with the trees.”
The Trees, Rush, 1978.
Enter, stage left:
Her name is Joya (or so we named her). Her liberal appendages swaying with the wind, blessing us with summer breezes, sprinkling us with tiny drops to alert us of the impending storm, and gifting us with a green panorama, shrouding the sullenness of weather-worn shingle gray and chipped brick. She, as all others like her, is divine in presence, majestic in aura and the clincher in my decision to reside where I do. Unfortunately, with a sheer arrogance only rivaled by utter ignorance, we have momentarily forgotten about the natural world and all it offers and as a result, she falls victim to the blade and to the disregard, the fear and the clock, and in the time it takes this country to get it’s meathooks into American Idol, she is reduced by small men with big toys though mostly by society at large.
“…Endless rooftops from my window, I felt the gloom of empty rooms on rainy afternoons.”
Circumstances, Rush, 1978
Enter, stage right:
His name is Kenneth. His creative essence is palpable, surging through his hands, onto the canvas, paper, guitar, microphone – magically transforming whichever medium he chooses. Stained, blood soiled sheets litter his disheveled quarters, a by-product of the looming twilight he retains, deeply. These two irrepressible forces wrench at his core, simultaneously at times, until finally his fragile eggshell gives way and he falls victim to the blade and the disregard, the fear and the clock and is slowly reduced to gaping wounds, shattered dreams and lost hope.
I feel the loss of them both, profoundly.
He survives, she doesn’t.
“It’s nature’s way of telling you something’s wrong.”
Nature’s Way, Spirit, 1970
We have neglected compassion, for the Creator’s gifts, for our fallen brother & sister. Our attempts at understanding fall short at times, or miss the bull’s eye completely, and we, in turn label, categorize or worse yet, turn, imperceptive for fear of seeing something in ourselves which may tug at a chord in the hollows of our inner sanctum. How can our eyes witness so much beauty, so much light and not be blinded? We have been conditioned to ignore grace in favor of indifference and accept rigidity in place of love. Stories are handed to us in bitter mouthfuls, each one more leaden than the last and we swallow as whole, inquiring of none.
When the smoke clears, we either 1-slay the dragon (in the name of fear), 2-allow the dragon to slay us (in the name of victimization) or 3-make peace with the dragon (in the name of serenity) so becoming diminished over time, reduced to a mere blip on our radar.
“Ice blue silver sky fades into grey, to a grey hope that, oh, yearns to be, starless and bible black.”
Starless, King Crimson, 1974
As I settle into the night calm, my heart fills with love, an austere lesson of compassion and a call for forgiveness at the foot of the mountain, to the service of my fellow humanoid, animal friend and Mother Earth, for one grave slip down the abyss and I could be in a similar quagmire. I am drawn to the fortuitousness of these two seemingly unrelated events, both of which rented real estate in my body today and occurred within hours of each other. Their link is a lesson for us all, for the future of humankind, for right now.
Regrettably, she didn’t have a choice about her survival.
But we do.
No trees (or humans) were harmed in the writing of this article.