Updated: Jan 8
Originally published in the Cannon Falls Beacon, 2018.
I was originally going to write this Local Wild on an exceptionally bright green insect I’d discovered in my garden, but after the tragedy of the storm last week I felt compelled to rifle through my photo archives and contemplate on the resilience of Nature.
In early spring, before the snow had fully thawed, a doe passed away on our property. We don’t know what caused her death, but we left her body undisturbed. One, we didn’t want to contract any potential disease that may have caused her end. Two, her final resting spot was out of the way of our usual traffic so we figured to simply let the doe return to dust, as it were. But much more than dust happened.
Over the course of the next few months the corpse of that doe disintegrated, left largely undisturbed except for one instance when I spotted a hungry opossum chewing on a meaty leg for supper at the tail end of the snowy season. But, as that snow melted the tendrils of Mother Nature’s loving hands began to encapsulate the deer, the grasses and wild flora wrapping themselves inside and around her body like a gentle blanket championing her transition from one life into another.
In early July the prairie fleabane began to blossom. Named for its supposed ability to drive away fleas and evil spirits, this annual herb does actually have some and anti-fungal properties. It’s narrow, hairy stems had jutted up between gaps in the unattractive remains as the weather had warmed and, now, the delicate white flowers were creating a rather welcome cover.
At full bloom, around mid-August, it actually became a pleasure to walk by the doe’s “burial” site. I was able to stand as a spectator at Nature’s recovery of something living that had collapsed from life and turn it into a thing of quietude and, dare I say, beauty. And, if I may reference an adage referenced by the Apostle Paul, surely it is true: Death really has been swallowed up in victory.
The remains of Cannon Falls in the aftermath of Thursday night’s tornado are gory. It seems ironic and almost confusing how decades old trees that stood tall and proud, silently symbolizing the unbreakable and eternal, were felled by the very hand that created, nurtured, and grew them. The non-permanence of even the seemingly permanent was made apparent. Mourning ensued and continues through the wreckage.
But Nature—of which we are a part—will recover. This truth Mother Nature has shown time and time again. Ergo, WE will recover. Our town will recover. Let us not forget how resilient a people can be; how during the healing process the break in a bone for a time becomes stronger than the surrounding bone that was left intact. For a time, we will be stronger than we were, stronger than our neighbors. Then, eventually, things will resume normalcy. Trust in that.
Even now we are experiencing the blanketing of victory over our remains: a community come together, love we didn’t realize was there is erupting sporadically in tufts and clouds across town, like the fleabane that bloomed from the recesses of the deceased doe’s body.
I envision those little white flowers sprouting up in the nooks and crannies of Cannon Falls: the side streets, the neighborhoods, the cemeteries, the churches. This little white flower that symbolizes exorcism and protection did just that for the ugliness that was a deer carcass. Given time and faith in the gentle, slow, and steady process of Nature, our spiritual fleabane can do the same for Cannon Falls.