“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

I was more than a little hot and bothered. I found myself slamming doors and fist-fighting with the air like an enraged extra in an action movie. Thoughts of my incredible bravery and persistence, my amazing willpower and fortitude—spinning and spiraling right alongside a healthy dose of why me, why now, and why has everyone let me down and ruined my day. My intentions were squashed—visibly, publicly, forcibly. There was no denying that now was not the time to tackle this project, and yet, there I was: very determined and extremely grumpified.

What on earth happened, you might query…? What disaster could possibly send my calm packing for a long weekend in the woods of my brain, hiding in a dark cave away from the storm? Oh, Laurie, you so poised, detached and reasonable… Ha! Allow me to laugh out loud for a moment there. Seriously!?

Ok, so here’s the calamity that trashed my happy–joyous–and-free space yesterday. I am a gardener. I have a stunning property with numerous raised beds (read: controlling gardener). My design, my irrigation system, my choice of flowers and plants—and aside from the insects, diseases, and deer—very successful, beautiful, and healthy. I fancy myself a relaxed, easygoing gardener, handling all challenges with ease and grace. Ha! Let me laugh again—louder this time.

There’s a section of my garden reserved for experimenting, it is most vulnerable and not "raised." It hovers between the driveway retaining wall and the woods—a three to six foot wide strip of dirt I have deemed perfect for elderberry, raspberry, verbenas, and other plants I’m testing for survivability. I’ve stopped looking up as I walk by one particular section of this patch because spotting the masses of interloping weeds is a massive trigger. In addition to the dreaded ragweed, a dead maple tree that fell over the winter is now sprawled across the space, blocking easy access to weed whack. Yes, it’s good wood for firewood—and it crushed a rose of sharon I planted. Chris promised to remove the maple and weed whack. We’re now in August—the dead fall and weeds - still there. Before I started averting my gaze, I had the pleasure (not) of watching "the weeds" grow taller and thicker, choking out and covering the dead maple like some kind of botanical crime scene.

Yesterday, for reasons unknowable, I decided it was finally time—indeed the time—to take the whacking of the ragweed into my own hands. The clock is ticking, hear it? The weed flowers turn to weed seeds, these seeds ensure next year’s weed apocalypse. The weather had been serving up excuses for weeks—too hot, too humid, too sticky—until yesterday’s cloud cover rolled in. Suddenly I was on a don’t-turn-back-no-matter-what mission to whack those green invaders into oblivion. I suited up: long pants, bug socks, Bogs, insect-proof long sleeved hoodie, gloves, wide hat. Basically the hazmat version of a garden party outfit.

Chris, trying to help, prepped the bushwhacker-on-wheels for me. I, knowing better (ha), insisted on the “more manageable” wand whacker. Spoiler: I was wrong. Two minutes in, the cords were tangled, mangled, and too short to do anything. Poor Chris tried to fix it; I promptly re-mangled it.  I was raging! 

Blame – Anger – Spin… Repeat.
That cycle continued for a bit… full-force suffering on steroids.

I finally gave up and came inside, sweaty and pissed. I stripped down and headed for a shower—no, I decided, I’d take an Epsom salt bath. Been meaning to. That didn’t work out either. No hot water. WTF?! And there is a HUGE and maybe-for-another-day realization about how this suffering state of mind just attracts more suffering… negative attracting more negative. It’s a spiral, and this was a bright-ass example. 

Somehow, sanity managed to break through the surface. I took a fucking DEEP breath and let the emotions flow—Focus, Acknowledge, Release (FAR—a recent acronym I came up with.) I SAW MY PART. (Emphasis on the MY, chicky. Take responsibility, Hello!?) Multiple doors in the hallway of my brain creaked open—yes, that hallway, the one lined with doors, each leading to a different, hopefully less sufferable perspective and action choice. I love the notion that anger can open alternate doors in that hallway—and maybe that’s its whole purpose. Just sayin’. Avoid, stuff, preload… then anger blows it all open and clears the way back to calm.

And here’s the plot twist. This morning, I marched down to the crime scene with my plant ID app*, ready to bag and tag this ragweed menace in its full Latin glory so I could roast it here with scientific precision. Guess what? Not ragweed. Nope. My mortal enemy was primarily Canada goldenrod. And here’s the kicker — I somehow don’t mind goldenrod. Why? Apparently I’ve decided it’s “pretty” enough to live. Ragweed gets the death sentence, goldenrod gets a vase. Turns out I’ve been running a full-on botanical beauty pageant out there without even knowing it. The rest of the “contestants” were a wild and wonderful collection of evening-primrose, mugwort, wild bergamot, pink-frosting Beebalm, and everlasting pea — basically a totally wild floral flash mob. The clouds lifted, the air cleared, and I swear angels started singing Hallelujah somewhere.

Why did I take goldenrod for ragweed? Oh… right. Because I didn’t look carefully. Because I’d already cast the villain in this drama months ago. Apparently I’m blind—especially when I’ve pre-written the script in my head and handed out the costumes. And yes, even covered in weed shrapnel and dripping sweat in my garden hazmat suit, I still worry about looking good — or at least looking like I know what I’m doing. Apparently, the beauty pageant isn’t just for the plants.

​So maybe the real lesson here isn’t about weeds, or anger, or even the whacker. Maybe it’s about how powerless I am when I barrel in with my mind already made up. How fast a perfectly lovely patch of nature can start looking like an enemy camp if I’m wearing my “hostile takeover” glasses — and how my so-called logic is basically me playing judge, jury, and executioner in a backyard beauty pageant.

​If you’re “pretty” like goldenrod, you get a vase. If you’re “ugly” like ragweed, you get the axe. And how sometimes — if I stop swinging long enough to actually see — the thing I’ve been battling turns out to be a peace-loving, totally harmless, maybe-even-worthy-of-a-vase group of wildflowers. Which, by the way, are still standing out there… probably plotting their next runway walk.

And now that I think about it… maybe this wasn’t my meltdown at all. Maybe the wildflowers — or the Universe acting on their behalf — engineered the entire incident. The busted whacker, the no-hot-water bath, the whole spiraling drama… all just to keep me from mowing them down. If that’s the case, well played, goldenrod. Well played.

* My all time favorite plant ID app... and gardeners plant tracking bestie... PictureThis. Check it out if you care to.

This came to me during a quiet moment—one of those glimpses behind the curtain. Not quite a dream, not quite a memory, but something in between. All I know is, it felt true, touching, moving, and inspiring, so I’ll share.

With a swooshy, clanking sound, the cars screeched to a jolting stop at the platform. My hair was wind-whipped, my heart still thumping, and my senses somewhere between “whee!” and “WTF just happened?” The platform was teeming with faces—wide-eyed, weary-eyed, childlike, ancient, amused, stunned. Expressions of every sort, every shade, every story. And just as I was climbing up and out of my very front row seat (because of course I insisted on the front), there she was. Grandma. Beaming. Blushing. Electric with delight. Making her way toward me through the happy throng.

“Well?” she called out, eyes twinkling like galaxies. “How was your ride? How’d you make out this trip?”

I could barely speak. Dazed in the best possible way. A little wobbly on my legs, still tingling with adrenaline, face flushed with wonder and thrill. “That was amazing,” I finally gasped. “Truly! I can’t believe it went so fast! I blinked and it was over!” I was already grinning like a lunatic. “Let’s go again. Please. Can we go again? This time together?”

“Of course, of course, dear,” she said, taking my arm like we were old partners in a dance. “You may want to sit out a couple rounds first. You know… process and review, plan and discern? Or maybe not?” She tilted her head, reading me like only a cosmic grandmother can. “You always did like to leap before you looked.” I laughed. She wasn’t wrong.

“There are other planets to choose from, you know,” she added, almost casually, like she was pointing out cafés on a travel brochure. “Maybe next time you’ll pick something a bit more gentle? A smidge more enlightened? Or kind? Or slow and syrupy sweet? The menu’s pretty mind-blowing, really. Infinite flavors. Infinite loops.”

I stood still there on the platform, anchoring to her presence like it was gravity itself. Hazel, that’s what she’s called here, I think. Hazel, so young and radiant, with the green velvet eyes and the patience of saints. I reached for her hand and squeezed. “Where am I, exactly?” I asked. “Dead? Limbo? Processing Bay C on Level 3?” She just chuckled. “Does it matter?” And, of course, it didn’t.

What took six-plus decades in Earth time—every excruciating detour, every heartbreak, every absurd plot twist—took only minutes here. Just a quick lap around the track. One wild ride in a timeless theme park where laughter echoes forever and regret dissolves faster than cotton candy in your mouth. This—this—must be the space between. The Great Pause. The Zone of Knowing. Or maybe just The Safe Place, where the seatbelt’s off and the ride photos are developing and you finally get to breathe.

The car I’d just occupied was already refilled, new riders buckled in, pulling down the bars with anticipation or anxiety or both. It was about to depart, and I just stared—awestruck, grateful, humbled to my cosmic core. And right then and there, I made a vow.

Next time I will request, a touch more awareness going in. Not a full spoiler-alert briefing. Not a safety video or pre-trip PowerPoint. Just a flicker. A flash. A teeny whisper in my soul’s ear: “Hey, this is a JOY ride. Remember?” I’m pretty sure I asked for that last time too. And no, I’m not looking to be the next Einstein or Gandhi or Dalai Lama. Just maybe a smidge more core-level bliss and trust. A little more arms-up, a little less white-knuckle grip.

I have no idea where or why this entire scene came into my wee little brain. It isn’t a “lesson” per se, it’s just an idea. A thought. A moment to step back or up or out and to consider a possible alternate reality, one where maybe—just maybe—I get to enjoy the ride a little more and take myself a bit less seriously. You are welcome to join me, if you want to, of course, only if you choose. For myself, no regrets, no shame spirals, no “oops, did it wrong.” Just a gentle whisper, “Humm. That went fast. Maybe I’ll remember to look around more next time. Maybe I’ll yell WHEEEE even if I’m not totally feeling it. Maybe I’ll laugh at the loops instead of bracing for them.”

Because here’s something I am pretty sure of: I’m OK. I’ve always been OK. I always will be OK, no matter what. Even on the ride when it doesn’t feel that way. Even when it’s upside down, backwards, squealing and smells like fear and burnt popcorn. Because this whole Earth trip? Just a side-show roller coaster—not even close to the main attraction in THE MULTIVERSE. And the only slightly cruel twist is the forgetting of that other bit… What was it again? Oh, right: I’m safe and loved. Cherished. And perfectly OK - NO MATTER WHAT!

So next time? I’ll try to remember. I’ll try to laugh earlier, breathe deeper, and scream with joy even when the bar locks down a little too tight. I’ll try to notice the sky more and maybe trust that even the rattle-trap cars are heading somewhere good. And if not? Well, I’ll catch Grandma at the end of the line and we’ll just ride again. Maybe with more one-on-one time together next round.

So here’s to the JOY ride. And here’s to us, brave and bumbling and brilliant as ever.
​Eyes open. Heart soft. Hands high.