Anthropology Major - University of North Texas
In a little “hamlet,” about a hundred feet from the front of my house, is a partially burned tree stump. It is the remnant of a pine tree that once stood over twenty feet tall. The stump has been there since 2003, when the tree to which it had once belonged died due to drought and had to be cut down. Steadily rotting ever since, it had recently caught fire on a hot summer day and was extinguished with water. Now it is charred on one side, the decomposition process accelerated by the fire. A thin layer of ash clings to burned side, atop the blackened flesh which remains, the only evidence that the fire had occurred. Directly in front of this stump is one of its living brethren, a mighty pine tree standing over twenty feet. On either side are two oak trees, their low, full branches shading the young saplings and brush that form two small copses. If I stand facing my house, ignoring what is behind me, I can almost pretend that I’m out in the forest somewhere far away. But this stump sits in a residential neighborhood, one block from a heavily trafficked road and three blocks from an elementary school. Less than fifteen feet in front of it is a sidewalk, which is frequented by walkers and joggers, cyclists and dogs. It is less than twenty feet from the intersection of two streets, where cars often idle waiting for their moment to turn onto the main road. Their wait is evidenced by the empty bottles, cigarette packets and spent butts that litter the ground not far way. It is impossible to ignore the fact that humans frequent this area, for the sound of children laughing echoes through the air.
There is other life here, however, in the midst of human chaos. Insects hum all around; grasshoppers spring from their hiding places at the sound of movement; ants lace themselves through the crumbling remnants of bark; beetles scuttle between the ants and dive into the crevices. At least three gray squirrels chase each other up and down the bark of the oak trees on either side. Unseen birds chatter to each other, passing between the oak branches that form the base of the copses. Pine needles litter the dry grass, with a few green blades managing to peek through. The ground is soft; my feet sink slightly when I walk, but the needles are so thick, it’s impossible to see what type of soil exists here without disturbing the scene. There have been some recent changes to the landscape by my father, who owns the property. He began clearing the young saplings and bushes on one side of the stump, exposing the interior. This was directly due to the fire, which, if it had reached the little copse, would have immediately ignited the young saplings and shrubs, causing untold damage. There is very little grass here, a thick carpet of pine needles standing in place of greenery. A few lonely ferns are withering now, having been exposed to the light for the first time in at least twenty years. The other copse still remains untouched, wildlife shaking the leaves of the bushes but remaining out of sight. Our cat, who is old and unwilling to challenge most living residents of the area, often rests nearby, stalking grasshoppers until they jump out of sight and lose her attention. This little haven, a few steps from the street, has become my experiment.
It was an interesting time for me to observe this space, because it came as the seasons were just beginning to change. I tried to vary the time of day I visited the spot, but, not being a morning person, I found it difficult to greet the early part of the day. I managed it one day, the first day, and it happened to be just as a school bus idled directly across the street from my mandala. The bus was picking up a special needs student, which was taking some time. The morning was still warm, the grass dry and brown except for a few green sprouts. The sun shone directly on the stump, highlighting the busy morning for the insects who used the stump as their playground. Meanwhile, cars lined up in front of and behind the school bus, impatiently waiting for the stop sign to be tucked back into the side of the bus. Plumes of exhaust filled the air, as the sound of chugging engines intermingled with the shouts of distant students. Small children skipped past me, chattering on their way to school, some of them giving me strange looks as I sat there, watching. The din of the cars and the idling bus drowned out the scurrying squirrels, who darted back and forth across the upper branches of the oak trees, despite the noise. Birds fluttered about in the copse to my left, shaking the leaves of the branches. It was a Monday, so my father had cleaned up the garbage that had been thrown there the week before and the ground was free from litter. No one seemed inclined to throw trash with me sitting there, and the mandala was quite clean of human debris. The next time I came was mid-week in the afternoon, and there were an empty cigarette packet, a few beer bottles and a fast food wrapper lying next to one of the dried-up ferns. School had long since let out, but there were still stragglers from the middle school not far away who were making their way home while I sat there. The usual suspects lingered about; my ant companions still crept across the bark and the squirrels could be heard, but not seen, chasing each other through the canopy above. My next visit occurred after a rainstorm had soaked the entire yard. My feet squished when I walked through the pine needles toward the stump, sinking lower than usual. There were more green spikes peeking through the pine needles this time; my insect friends had retreated for a short while until the water had dried out. But the faithful squirrels were still there, chattering and climbing up the bark of the oak trees, and their bird companions called to each other in the distance. My last two observations took place over the weekend, where there was a marked change in human traffic. Almost no cars drove by either day, the only human sounds coming from people walking their dogs past the spot. On those occasions, nature’s song took center stage, with the birds calling out to each other and flying down to hunt for the insects that were abundant around the stump. The squirrels chased each other on the ground, rather than up the trees. Even the presence of our old cat didn’t seem to perturb them much, since she mostly lounged in the sunbeam that filtered through the upper branches of the pine trees. These days, when no humans were around, except for me, is when I saw the most activity in the mandala.
It was most interesting to me that the animals who frequent my little spot are what most humans would consider to be pests. In fact, I know that people spend thousands of dollars to rid their homes and yards of most of these creatures who call this area home. Those squirrels who dance with each other up and down the trees would most likely have been poisoned or trapped if they were anywhere else. The ants traveling in and around the deteriorating bark of the stump would most certainly have been removed post haste. Even my little bird friends, whom I assume are either starlings or mockingbirds, since I’ve seen them on the ground, drive the humans crazy with their songs and their poorly placed nests. Yes, my little haven is no more than a breeding ground of human annoyances. And yet, it is the humans here who are annoying me more than the animals. Between Monday and Saturday, trash has piled up in my little area; everything from beer bottles to soda bottles, plastic bags to cigarette butts. The animals take their activities up into the trees when the humans are at work; they don’t stop what they do so much as the move it out of the way of those who hate them. The humans have no such regard for my friends. This is evidenced by the squirrel carcass that sits in the middle of the road, a casualty of a human who did not care about a single squirrel. Questions swirl through my head as I sit, pensive, staring at my suburban oasis. What does a single squirrel matter? Isn’t it just one of dozens? Isn’t it just a stupid animal who can’t stay out of the road? Not really, when I consider how my mandala formed. It’s most likely that the copses that formed here are the result of the squirrels and birds, who assisted in distributing the seeds necessary for them to grow. What would my mandala look like if there were no squirrels or birds? Would there even be a stump here for the insects to frolic upon? Would I be able to sit amongst any trees? Would the ground here be as soft if it didn’t have its pine needle carpet, which helps keep the moisture locked into the soil? The birds and the squirrels have adapted their activities to the intrusive humans, yet the humans intrude upon nature with little to no regard for the value present in my piece of the world. The only litter left by my squirrel and bird friends are seed shells, which will eventually turn into saplings and ensure the future of the green space. What have we humans contributed to the salvation of this place?
These questions, which have been stirred up in my mind, are the exact reason that exercises such as this, and those done by Haskell, are important. It is not that I came up with the “correct” questions that needed to be answered. It is that I came up with a question at all. Today’s world is so unfocused on the natural element that we depend upon, that we often forget that it is there. But by walking out our own front doors and looking at the nature that exists even in our human-centric cities, we can begin to think about and understand the natural world in a context that makes sense to us. Most people would never think of spending one hour and fifteen minutes, let alone a year, staring at a small area in their front yard. But by doing so, the natural world unveils itself, causing stirrings and questions to arise. We understand why trash piles up in the corner of our area; why the animals escape to the canopy during the workweek and frolic on the ground on the weekends; why the copses form where they do and the systems by which these various organisms live together in harmony, and what happens when our work disrupts these systems. We can see nature’s resiliency and its ability to adapt, which in turn will allow us to make changes that will benefit the system as a whole. Like the golf ball in Haskell’s forest, nature does not necessarily mean “non-human made.” Humans are part of the natural world, just as any other creature, as are the products we insert into nature. What we need to learn is how to manage our needs against the needs of the earth and how we can live in harmony with all other beings. The Native Americans had a vision of conservation which would last long into the future, and they came to these practices by watching the world and interpreting what they saw. Through activities like mandala observations, humans can begin to open their eyes and envision a future that will last for all time, just as our native brothers did before us.
Reference Cited:
Haskell, David George. 2013. A Forest Unseen: A Year's Watch in Nature. Penguin Books.
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