Living with Scleroderma

Reflections on the Messy Complexity of Chronicity

mindfulness

New Tree, New Year

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Friday afternoon, we planted a new tree in our front yard. Ever since our city-owned Norway maple dropped a huge limb across the street this summer, I’ve wanted to make up for the loss. So we are now the proud parents of a persimmon sapling, which will (we hope) bear some tasty fruit in three to four years.

It seems a fitting way to begin the fall season—and a fitting way to mark the Jewish New Year, Rosh Hashanah, which began Sunday evening and continues until sundown tonight.

Planting a tree suggests many metaphors, for life, for abundance, for repairing our world. On a more personal level, I just happen to be a tree lover. The variety of species, alone, never ceases to amaze me or to remind me of the incredible diversity that makes our world so exquisite. Our persimmon has smooth, shiny green leaves that will turn a deep orange later in the season. When mature, it will reach ten to twelve feet in height and crown diameter.

Soon enough it will be whipped by wind and snow, but our landscaper, who specializes in sustainable, edible plantings that are appropriate for our region, assures me that it will sprout stronger roots in response to whatever fall and winter bring. So I will soak it twice a week and undoubtedly worry if the weather turns harsh and watch it adapt and grow.

It’s hard to believe that such a thin stalk will provide shade and food in a few years. But the act of planting a tree is an act of hope. And so, Dear Reader, whenever and however you mark the year’s turn, take heart. And consider planting your own tree.

Evelyn Herwitz blogs weekly about living fully with chronic disease, the inside of baseballs, turtles and frogs, J.S. Bach, the meaning of life and whatever else she happens to be thinking about at livingwithscleroderma.com. Please view Privacy Policy here.

Almost Autumn

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With Labor Day behind us and schools here already in session, it’s starting to feel like fall. The maples on our street began to drop leaves, a few at a time, in mid-August. A week post our vacation, the days are noticeably shorter, with sunset at about quarter past seven.

I find this time of year bittersweet. It’s hard to let go of summer, even as it’s a relief to be out of the 90+ degree Fahrenheit heat wave and soupy humidity of the weeks before our travels. At the same time, with schools in session, everyone back from vacations, and the Jewish New Year right around the corner, fall is always about new beginnings. Even as trees go bare, they are storing sugar for the long winter ahead and forming new buds.

We have one more big family celebration coming up this weekend, and then it’s time to focus, once again, on work and writing and election season, on putting away summer clothes and getting back into layers, on birds migrating south and trees hardening off. I’ve gotten away with only my thumbs in bandages for several months, and I know that is about to change as the temperatures drop and more ulcers appear. So it goes.

To everything there is a season . . .

(Click the link, above, if you can’t see the embedded video of Turn! Turn! Turn! with Judy Collins and Pete Seeger.)

Evelyn Herwitz blogs weekly about living fully with chronic disease, the inside of baseballs, turtles and frogs, J.S. Bach, the meaning of life and whatever else she happens to be thinking about at livingwithscleroderma.com. Please view Privacy Policy here.

Rescue Mission

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As you may have guessed by now if you follow my blog, I’m a bit of an amateur naturalist. Learning about all kinds of plants and creatures gives me joy. Sitting on our deck when I’m writing longhand (best way to pour out the first draft of a story), I love to watch the birds at our feeder and other wildlife going about their day (which can also distract me from my writing, or help provide the pause that summons the next sentence). Our feeders hang outside the kitchen windows, my favorite view as I eat breakfast or lunch.

So, I can report, with delight, that we saw another hummingbird on Sunday, pale olive green with a lemon yellow breast. It hovered and sipped, zipped away, then returned for another drink. I wasn’t nearby for other visits, but the nectar level in the feeder was slightly lower by evening.

However, apparently the hummingbird’s activity attracted some other visitors—bees. As we were leaving the house Sunday evening, I noticed them investigating the feeder. By the time we returned, there were no more bees crawling around it. They had all managed to fall inside.

What to do? Bees are important pollinators, essential to world food supplies, and honeybees are in serious decline due to a variety of factors, especially use of pesticides and other agricultural chemicals. At first I thought they had all drowned, but when I tapped the feeder, they started swimming. Then they started humming. It was as if they were calling for help. (Yes, I’m a softy with a writer’s imagination. But still possible.)

My hands are not facile enough to simply pick up the feeder and dump the contents, especially at risk of getting stung. But with salad tongs and long plastic kitchen spoons, I managed to unhook it and spill it on the ground. When I checked back a while later, most of the bees were still curled up on the grass, but at least one was wobbling about. The next morning, they were all gone. So either some other critter came along and had a feast, or they slept off their sugar high, dried out, and flew away. I hope the latter is true.

A little online research turned up a few ideas to avoid a repeat: diluting the sugar water solution to a 5:1 ratio, still sweet enough for the hummers but not as appealing to the bees, is my next step.

And so, Dear Reader, I hope you find some inspiration and fascinating drama in your own back yard. I’m taking a break for the next couple of weeks and will be back at the end of August. For those in the northern hemisphere, savor the rest of summer, and if you are down under, I hope the end of winter treats you well.

Evelyn Herwitz blogs weekly about living fully with chronic disease, the inside of baseballs, turtles and frogs, J.S. Bach, the meaning of life and whatever else she happens to be thinking about at livingwithscleroderma.com. Please view Privacy Policy here.

Image: Leandro Fregoni

Fleeting Moment

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For Mother’s Day this year, my daughters gave me a hummingbird feeder. I’ve never had one before, and it takes some tending, but in the weeks since, I have faithfully made a sugar water solution (1:4 ratio) and hung the feeder on the corner of our deck, changing the nectar every few days so won’t spoil, and waited.

And for many weeks, no hummingbirds came to visit. I checked migration maps. Plenty of sightings in our region. But none here at home.

That is, until a week ago Sunday. We were sitting out on the deck with family, when all of a sudden, my cousin startled. A hummingbird had just hovered by the feeder. I had my back turned, though everyone else saw and marveled. Soon, it returned, along with a second hummingbird. This time I turned in time. Tiny, jewel-toned, they hung in the air, wings a blur, then zipped away toward a high branch of a Norway maple. Miraculous.

I made certain to change the nectar that night, so it would be fresh for the next day. Sure enough, Monday morning, the gold breasted hummingbird returned for a sip. I saw it a couple of times. But neither of these tiny fliers have returned, since.

I’m not sure if it has to do with the extreme heat of recent days. I’ve changed their nectar frequently, because it can easily spoil in 90+ degree weather. Still, no hummingbirds.

I hope they return. Hummingbirds are territorial, especially the males, and they remember location of feeders. Such beautiful creatures. Even if only for a moment, so worth the wait. A stunning reminder that each moment is precious.

Evelyn Herwitz blogs weekly about living fully with chronic disease, the inside of baseballs, turtles and frogs, J.S. Bach, the meaning of life and whatever else she happens to be thinking about at livingwithscleroderma.com. Please view Privacy Policy here.

Image: Ramona Edwards

If a Tree Falls

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The day after the 2016 election, a crew from our city’s forestry department came to our house. We had requested that they prune dead branches on our Norway maple. But, to my dismay, they were actually planning to take the tree down. I ran outside and talked them out of it, and instead, they did the necessary pruning. I was far too upset about the election to lose a tree, too.

The Norway maple continued to bear new leaves each spring. A few limbs died off, but because it’s a city tree, our arborist is not supposed to prune it. Nonetheless, it seemed to be doing okay.

That is, until this past Saturday. Around 3 o’clock, I was relaxing and reading in our living room when I heard a strange crash. A large limb of the Norway maple had just fallen across the street. No warning. Thank God, no one was walking or driving by at that moment.

What do you do when a tree falls across the street on the weekend? I called 911, and the police said they’d contact the public works department. Our neighbors gathered round and exchanged surprise over our tree’s sudden demise. Cars turned back as they came upon the limb, which had made the street impassible. About an hour later, a guy from DPW arrived and put traffic cones on either side. He said it would be a while before a crew could come and deal with it. Another tree had also fallen elsewhere in the city, and the forestry department is short-staffed.

I went back inside to read. A few hours later, several of our neighbors kindly took it upon themselves to move the limb to the side of the street, so cars could drive by, and I thanked them. When the DPW finally came back, they said they would return on Monday. The entire tree would have to go, because it was clearly unsafe.

And so, yesterday morning, a crew arrived. They put the fallen limb and broken branches in a chipper and then proceeded to take down the tree. I counted its rings later—at least 35 years, and probably older. Decades to grow, an hour to fell. The house looks bare in front.

I plan to request a new tree be planted in its place, once the stump is ground down. I know it was necessary, this time, to remove it. At least I was able to give it nearly six more years to live, and no one was injured when its time came.

Years ago, I wrote a book about the history of our city’s urban forest and how it was suffering from neglect. That book struck a chord and helped to inspire a massive replanting program after a major infestation of Asian Longhorn Beetles about 15 years ago. Over the past year, I have worked with a small group of concerned citizens to create a long overdue Urban Forestry Tree Commission, to deal with issues like funding the forestry department, developing an effective citywide pruning program, and doing a better job of planting and stewarding our public trees. A week ago, our City Council finally approved members of the Commission, and it will begin meeting this fall. I was also appointed by the City Manager this past winter to serve on an advisory committee to help implement a comprehensive plan for our city to meet the challenges of climate change. So, it’s all the harder for me to lose a tree. But health and safety take precedence.

It’s trite but true: Life brings many surprises. All we can do is our best to meet the moment.

Evelyn Herwitz blogs weekly about living fully with chronic disease, the inside of baseballs, turtles and frogs, J.S. Bach, the meaning of life and whatever else she happens to be thinking about at livingwithscleroderma.com. Please view Privacy Policy here.