The world today is a whirlwind of delusional bleach remedies (some, alas, touted by the White House), grieving families separated from each other’s hugs by mandated safe distances, and increasingly ominous clinical reports from those on the medical front lines. To say nothing of tornadoes sweeping America’s heartland, while the hurricane season is predicted to be early and vicious.
Yet despite this swirl of horror and fear, the back garden here at the SunHouse is strangely still. The immensely tall pines on The Priory’s land are still as statues. Not a crow or hawk cruises below the cloud cover. The row of cedars on the rear property line stand like sentinels on parade. Even the birdbath and freshly filled feeders are undisturbed by feathered or furred guests.
The petals of the bright pink rhododendron and the deeper fuchsia weigela may be unfurling in microscopic intervals, but they seem relentlessly frozen in time and space. Only two brazen chickadees flit between branch and birdfeeder, but once they alight on the dogwood, motion in the garden stops once again.
The rest of Nature is holding her breath. Just as I do when I pass the jogger trotting south as I walk north. When animals feel fear, they freeze in hopes the predator will miss them, strike elsewhere. What are we waiting for?