Doing Nothing

As many evenings as possible, we sit at the top of the field-returning-to-woods and watch the sun set, another click further to the right in this season, toward the abandoned silo, which marks the summer solstice.

The field, unmowed, is testament to the longevity of the earth, despite our manipulations.

The species increase. One summer's growth nourishes the next. Moles and worms cultivate the ground. Insects abound. Birds nest. Voles return. Mice and rabbits multipy. As do the predators -- foxes in the weeds (all honor to the name), hawks patrolling overhead, and us sitting quietly, resisting the urge to interfere.

In the woods, too, life increases. Windfall is left to rot. Snags are left standing. We neaten nothing, having long ago surrendered the vision of a manicured park as ideal. Wildness is what we're after.

The woods floor is rich with infants, and we walk delicately among them. Today we saw the first white violet.

In just a few decades, our woods and field have taken on a distinctive look, appreciated by some.

"Beautiful," some say. "How do you do it?"

"Easy," we say. "All you have to do is nothing."

copyright 2010 J. O'Brien, all rights reserved