Wakerobin

Before my walk, I set an intention to open to receive messages from the natural world so that I can share them here with you. When the rain pauses and the sun breaks through the clouds, I set out. Each squishy step is an opportunity to pay attention to all that happens around me. Since the first part of the walk is along a paved road I’m alert to logging trucks and cars as I navigate the narrow shoulder. Then I notice bits of trash in the culvert, the rooster’s call of prominence, the new gravel driveway at the tiny fishing hut, and the neighbor's dog sneaking across the field to greet my dog Pablo before his person calls him back.

Just past the last neighbor’s property along this section of the road, there is an animal trail that leads into the wooded campground that is still closed this time of year. A grove of ancient fir and spruce trees stand tall here. They’ve experienced their share of campers, summer heat waves, winter storms and the original Civilian Conservation Corps camp back in 1937. Underneath the elders' dense canopy, the ground is littered with their lichen and moss covered boughs, a sign that the county has yet to tidy up in preparation for the coming season.

In the first weeks of spring, my eyes are intent on finding color, a reassurance that Spring will not renege on her commitment to unleash everything she’s got. I'm relieved when I catch sight of neon pink salmonberry blossoms in the thicket along the path. The more I see, the happier I am, convinced that the momentum towards life out of winter’s darkness is in full swing, even though the forecast is for more days of rain.

1. campground 2. pablo 3. salmonberry blossom 4. wood sorrel

   
   

Beyond the campground, there is a narrow trail along the river. Everywhere I look, leaf buds push out of branches and seedlings rise to their potential. I sense that every plant is on overdrive eating as much light as they desire before the next cloud cover moves in. The forest floor is blanketed with moss and heart-shaped wood sorrel. I hover here and ask permission– May I? – I don’t hear a no, so I hum a tune as an offering in reciprocity, then pull a tri-leaf and place it in my mouth. The citrusy tang dissolves on my tongue in deliciousness. This pause is a gift.

Then I notice someone quite elegant in the midst of the wood sorrel, a Pacific trillium (Trillium ovatum), also called the Wakerobin because they are one of the first flowers of spring like the American robin is the first bird to return to build their nests.

Even drenched by rain, she’s a standout. I should say he/she is a standout because they are bisexual (male and female parts) and occur as single flowers with three petals, above the leaves. They can live up to 70 years and are known for taking their time to reach full expression. It takes about 2 years to sprout from seed and when it does, it will only have one leaf for several years. The first bloom can take between 7-18 years to develop and will often practice dormant phases where it rests for a season or two. It is primarily pollinated by beetles, moths, and bumblebees. The seeds are dispersed by ants and wasps. The roots have been used for medicinal purposes among Native American tribes to stop bleeding after childbirth, as an eye medicine, and for bronchial problems, among other things. I must also mention that she is a rare sight. One must know what they are looking for in a prolific landscape.

All these facts aside, I feel awe when I’m in the presence of a type of beauty that invites my curiosity and reflection. I wonder what lesson the trillium offers? At this moment, under this particular set of circumstances–spring on the way, the rain on pause, time and freedom to explore, and a body that can still navigate uneven trails–the lesson is about gratitude, hope, and like the trillium, following my own slow and steady timeline of development and expression.