When I lived in Cannes, my neighbors of the villa taught me a slogan they were utilizing to get them through their dire campaign involving Le Pen – for which they had to vote three times in the departement of their births, which meant leaving the haven of Provence.
“Haut les coeurs!”, [sounds like “o, liqueurs!”] conveys the sustaining command to hold high our hearts, no matter what. The French are masters of this art, as their revolutionary scene of Marianne in the midst of the battle, hearteningly conveys.
NJWILDBEAUTY readers know that my own heart has been leaden, so that I have not been able summon the Muse to craft new blogs. A certain level of joie de vivre is essential to these ‘pages’, a joie seriously lacking. My heart does not even feel red any longer — rather, the grey/yellow-green of this morning’s discouraging sky.
A British friend writes us, warning that we not “fall into the Slough of Despond.” A kind of “Pilgrim’s Progress” is our plan this day, although it’s too late about the falling. My friend’s warning is timely and urgent – that we not descend further; above all that we do not wallow. Attention to the beautiful and the wild, she urges, has never been more important. I’m considering this, considering…
France’s Marianne, with her brave, billowing Tricoleur [flag] sustains me in these times. Although we choose somewhat different garb, her spirit is required now. We of this young country would call it “The Spirit of ’76”.
All my life, I’ve carried the spirit of our true Patriots, our Founding Fathers and Mothers.
But now — this recent scene in Trenton’s Abbott Marshlands is the world I deplore and dread — sheer desecration of our wild and sacred spaces: We can expect far more than this — the visible and the invisible — as with pipelines beyond counting.
And, to forge my way out of the Slough of Despond, I begin balancing images from this Abbott Marshlands pilgrimage upon “Inauguration” Day. You’ll see that even in an overcast time, even when muddy trails greet hikers, beauty prevails.
But birding is why we are here. Susan Burns, –indispensable Willing Hands (volunteer) at D&R Greenway events–, does so to save habitat, for birds in particular. Here, she’s memorizing subtle gadwalls; dapper northern pintails, merry black and white coots; interspersed with jazzy orange, forest green and new-snow-white shovelers, — the rare ducks of winter — on waterways of the Marsh.
Regarding the next image, Susan and (other birding friends and) I never know whose side we’re on. “Nature raw in tooth and claw” is why we SAVE wildlands! That balancing act, where everything cycles into use and blessing for everything else. She and I conclude that this raptor must have been a great horned owl… These clusters punctuate our waterside trail, followed by lacings of “whitewash” — excretions — typical of owls. Of course, we’ll never know. But without this preserved wild natural habitat, neither owls nor prey could survive.
The Way of the Wild, Abbott Marshlands
In the Marsh, Nature’ processes, –almost invisible, way beyond time–, are at work on every side. Here we marvel at the splendid tapestry of fungus performing its slow transformative service upon the majestic felled beech. Susan and I insist, — yes, aloud, yes, to the tree — “You are beautiful, imposing, arresting, even in death!”
Preservationists “pay any price, bear any burden” [JFK Inauguration] to save land and water to foster slow and sacred processes in force since before time itself.
Historians now grant Dr. Charles Conrad Abbott every honor for realizing and daring to state that artifacts he discovered in this Marsh give evidence of Lenape presence and use for 10,000 years and more!
But Nature’s actions and interactions have been dynamically present here far far far far longer. Who are WE to intrude, let alone arrest or destroy>
We are told that the Lenapes named this Spring Lake in their own far more beautiful language, because it was born of a spring. We are also told that the beavers were the engineers…
In its center, though invisible to my camera, are coots, gadwalls, pintails, shovelers and a plethora of gulls. Over our heads here and at another watery site deep into our journey, we were circled and circled by an enormous mute swan. It may be mating season — he sure acts like it. We decided that this swan, circling us at least six times, was a teen-ager in a white convertible, cruising as did my best friends and I along Detroit’s Woodward Avenue in our teens. That swan was simply displaying how spectacular he is, how absolutely irresistible.
It is so still in the Marsh, that we were overwhelmed by the irreplaceable whisper/roar [a kind of ‘whuff whuff whuff’] of air in the mute swan’s wings.