Fact-Check Your Angst

“You didn’t come here to fix things that are broken, or to know things you don’t know. You came because life on the path of least resistance is a delicious state of being. And you are in love with life, and you are in love with you, and you are in love with being in love with life.” – Abraham & Esther Hicks.

Mic drop. Seriously. And yet there I was, stricken—each time I strolled or rode around our property—thinking OMG, this place is headed straight for forest claustrophobia! The manicured-ish field that once offered an open sweep of space was staging its own coup, and baby white pines were the enemy troops. One per inch practically, marching shoulder-to-shoulder in a full-blown hostile takeover. Goodbye open field, hello woods. And of course my first instinct? I had to get out there and yank, fix, manage, manipulate. After all, wasn’t it my job to be a “good steward”? Cue the Catholic-school voice in my head, wagging its finger at me for neglecting my sacred duty.

I’ve been practicing my intention to live on "Turtle Time", and that gave me enough breathing room to notice the upset and PAUSE to wonder if maybe, just maybe, I was hallucinating what my responsibilities actually were. A 200+ acre hallucination is no small feat, by the way. Years of Master Gardener training hadn’t helped; if anything, it made me fidgety. Cornell Cooperative Extension updates had practically become my bedtime horror stories: invasives spreading like wildfire, insects barge hopping or jet-setting in from overseas, strange new diseases hell-bent on annihilating our native species. Their tone? Pure fear and trepidation, like Mother Nature herself had joined the mafia and was coming to collect. And honestly, they’re not entirely wrong—these folks do have cause for concern (if not alarm). I just had to dig up every last one of my beloved roses thanks to Rose Rosette disease, a virus carried in the saliva of a microscopic mite that floats on the breeze like some invisible terrorist. It turns roses into grotesque mutants, unfixable and untreatable, and it lives on in the soil for three-plus years after the plant is gone. Nothing I could have done would have protected my ladies. Heartbreaking? Absolutely. (RIP: Eustatia Vie, The Poet's Wife, Gabriella, Lady of Shallot) But the truth is, those roses were a lot of work anyway. I refuse to live in fear. They’ve been removed, and now I’m free to explore other lovely plants. When a door closes windows open and all that... 

Still, the white pines weren’t my only source of angst. Each stroll past the maple with its curling, spotted leaves or the apple tree with tasty but scary looking apples had me convinced the invasion wasn’t just visual—it was systemic. My brain spun like a siren: the forest is under siege, the orchard is infected, and if I don’t act now, everything will collapse. The weight of stewardship pressed in from all sides. It wasn’t just the out of control saplings anymore—it was a whole woodland conspiracy. And the more I thought about it, the worse it got.

Enter: Fred Breglia. Arborist. Pruner extraordinaire. Keeper of Landis Arboretum. I’d seen him teach pruning at the Spring Garden Expo in Troy and thought, “That guy actually knows his trees.” So I called. But first—the even harder step—explaining myself to Chris. This, my friends, was the twitchy angst portion of the program. My inability to translate my insecurities, restlessness, and vague sense of “responsibility” into language that didn’t sound like I was losing it was almost comical. I had to practice and edit until my panic was converted into something resembling a palatable request. A friend who babysits her grandkids always says, “Use your words,” when the girls get pissy and upset. Apparently, I needed the same reminder. Try saying, “Honey, I think the forest is plotting a coup and we might be doomed” versus “We do want to be good stewards of this precious property, right? I’d like reliable, clear information from an expert about what’s happening out there.” One gets you side-eye, the other gets you nods. Eventually, after much pacing and wordsmithing, I landed on the latter. Cue the mantra: NEVER give up—even if your opening line makes you sound like the Lorax on crack.

The day came. Chris had a scheduling conflict, but I went with Fred anyway, trailing him like an arborist paparazzi, recording his every word. He calmly assessed the towering white pines—150 to 175 feet tall, glorious old beings that are not obstacles but absolute features of our delicious view. He had concrete recommendations for stewarding those giants to keep them healthy, practical advice for addressing the maple fungus, and a clear plan for the apple scale. This was exactly what I needed: identify the problem, offer the solution, outline what’s mine to do—and what I can just leave the fuck alone. Later, Chris joined in, asked his questions, and by the end was just as grateful and impressed as I was. That’s the beauty of professionals—they bring knowledge and a plan. (only one single invasive tree on the whole journey with Fred, BTW.... an olive of some sort which we can easily remove.)

And here’s the kicker: my dreaded “white pine invasion” wasn’t a nightmare, a supreme lapse in judgment, or proof I’d failed as a land steward. It was simply what forests do. Whether or not Fred used the exact word, the concept is real: succession. After clearing—whether by fire, storm, or humans—the pines rush in first. Later, other trees squeeze them out. The forest has its own management plan already written into its DNA. Trail marker spotted: I DON’T HAVE TO FIX A DAMN THING. If I want to keep spaces open for wild blackberries or blueberries, that’s my option, not my obligation. The land isn’t begging for rescue; it’s inviting me to trust it. A map I didn’t even know I had suddenly unfolded in my lap: trust the process, trust the forest, trust that the journey comes with more than one trail.

Moral of the story? When all else fails to relieve your angst, do a little fact-checking. Turns out the cure for panic can be as simple as one steady voice saying, “This is normal.” Knowledge, not spiraling. A fact, not a fantasy. And when you can’t fact-check? You can always trust. Trust the pause, trust the process, trust that nothing’s broken and you don’t have to fix a damn thing. There are always multiple solutions for feeling irritable, restless, discontent, or plain annoyed—meditation, humor, compassion, or, in this case, calling Fred. Knowledge is an option. Trust is the compass. Silly girl. Field Guide Rule #48: Sometimes the cure for crazy is a fact. Notice. Pause. Ask. And whatever you do—never, ever give up.​

Ode To Trees
An extra-ordinary day
Of manifestation
And self-expression
Culminates
Into an evening walk
Around the campground.
Fields surround
And yet the fairy-like
Path between wind breakers
Of trees
With soft twilight
Light and crunchy leaves
Draws me.
Majestic – really
Like monarchs paced
Between them ages past
Beckoning – deciding
Drawing on past power
And present glory
Life suspended
Between a row of
Wise, bending-to-breeze
Being in life
In the middle of North Dakota
Trees.
They filtered the
Sunset so perfectly
They stood so tall
Proud and majestic
I was at once
Walking an ancient
Forest at dusk.
Complete with every
Scent and sound
And feel of breeze
And energies.
I honored and
Acknowledged the
Spirits of each
-older- younger
-spindly – bushy
-bark or no bark
Equally
What a magic
Place trees create
By their being
Where-ever
How-ever
When-ever
9-24-03

---