After yesterday's crowing entry, disaster struck. Or, more accurately, a gale passed through and a tree struck--only the ground, fortunately. It was about ten feet from the camp and about a foot from the car. Both of us were safe. But it was still pretty freaky to hear a huge crack and know what was happening and be completely powerless to stop it.
I started thinking about the hubris of imagining that I can direct the way my presence changes the landscape, even here, where I am most intimately connected with the land. Me? Pfff. Nature holds all the trump cards.
I don't often quote the Christian Bible, especially the Old Testament, but this is Ecclesiastes Chapter 1, Verses 2b through 4: "All is vanity. What profit hath a woman of all her labor which she taketh under the sun? One generation passeth away, and another generation cometh: but the earth abideth for ever."
I'm of the generation that currently cometh. I follow two generations that came to this part of the North Shore to build and rebuild and build again. I hope another generation will come after me. If not, that's OK: the earth abideth forever.
And should another generation get too big for its britches, she'll send a birch tree down to remind them who's boss.
