Squirrel's Dream

In the garden, weeding, I pull up an oak seedling. I didn’t know what I was lifting out of the litter of redwood needles and bark until the acorn was unearthed. In awe, I studied the acorn with the tap root dangling down and the stem shooting up to feature its first dark green leaves. I found a little pot and replanted it there, hopeful of a recovery, unsure of how oak trees handle transplantation. Now a tad wiser, I spot more seedlings among the weeds.

How marvelous that the squirrels have been planting an oak grove in my yard over the winter. I wish I could allow this incredible magic to unfold and see these trees grow. My yard is actually not mine. I have a landlord to answer to, a contractual responsibility to uphold. However, I feel spiritually accountable to the squirrels and the tiny oaks. Caught between civilization and the beating heart and surging sap of the real world, I place my fragile hope in the tiny pot with the rescued sapling.

This has happened before. At another rental house long ago, I saved an ornamental maple sapling that shot up in a flower bed near the front door. In a grueling ordeal, I dug it out from under the concrete path with bare fingers to disentangle and save the roots. I transplanted it in the center of the front yard, where it remained long after my family was gone and that house was sold. Saplings don’t know about ownership, HOA bylaws, property lines, or municipal planning. They grow when and where the growing is good.