Shore of Lake Erie on a stormy day.
As I was walking along the Rail Trail the other day, many thoughts were going through my head.
“I forgot my binoculars.”
“The mosquitoes aren’t that bad.”
“I wonder if these shoes are waterproof.” But all of this was eventually overcome by feeling the cool air, listening to the many chirping and twittering sounds, the crunching of the wet gravel underfoot and simply breathing.
When I noticed the plant species at the edge of the car park and on the trail itself, my first thought was how many of them were invasive. But then I noticed that some were naturalized and some were native. A few were even native. Then I wondered why I had to label them as such in the first place. What purpose do these labels serve? Do I need to put them up at this time on this particular walk? The answer was no, but it got me thinking and started an exercise in looking at each plant as a plant in its own right and evaluating it as such. Not part of a category, not good or bad.
So I take a closer look at the dewy mulleins lined up at the edge of the parking lot. Some are raising bright yellow blossoms into the air, and a bumblebee is sitting on one, still sleepy and cold. A lump of Butter and Eggs was stuck in the wilderness at my feet, losing its ground as an early pioneer to the more unruly second-year and fall immigrants. Raspberries, poison ivy, a few different types of mustard, and wild lettuce, among others, joined the jumble that is early colonization of disturbed soils.
Beyond, the sumac was home to a squirrel that seemed to use it as a highway to get back and forth to the hickory tree. It had a nut on the way down and another was waiting on the way up. A song sparrow was exploring the debris at the base of the sumac, looking for things that make sparrows happy. I could hear the call of a woodbill from the higher trees at the trail entrance. Chipmunks called hollowly and scurried about, though I never saw them, doing what chipmunks do in the fall, wanting for nothing in the fall harvest of a hedgerow.
There’s a name for these kinds of areas that border and separate two different habitats, but aren’t distinct enough to deserve a name themselves: edges. I’ve written about edges before, and how they’re powerful spaces that bring elements from both sides together and support everyone. Every edge is different, and I came up with the idea that edges are the space in between.
There are transitions in life, both in everyday life and in life. I wrote about change last time, but transition zones are the space that contains, allows and even encourages change. Natural transition zones come in the form of mudflats, fence rows and median strips, field edges, swamps and beaches. Transition zones in life include moving house, becoming a partner or parent, or changing career or job. They are chaotic, just like a natural boundary. They have both too much and too little, just like a natural boundary.
That in-between space – when you’re no longer alone but haven’t figured out how to be together; when you’ve given birth but haven’t figured out how to parent – is a lesson in duality. You’re in two different spaces, yet in a completely different one. Animals use edge habitats, the in-between spaces, as refuge, protection from wildlife, a source of food, and something they can rely on when their habitat is disturbed in any way.
As humans, we often experience transitions as frightening or filled with anxiety, fear or apprehension. Uncertainty makes many people uncomfortable, and so the limits of what we know are often not welcomed. However, as rational individuals, we have the power to change our perspective.
When I leave Audubon after 20 years, my space between the before and the after is completely undefined. Many people have asked the question, “Where are you going?” and the answer is nowhere. I rest in the space between, on the edge, in transition. I learn from nature as I always have, seeking sustenance and comfort in everything and nothing that is now life. All things belong, just as all those unruly denizens at the edge of the parking lot belong, regardless of their labels as native, non-native, invasive, domesticated. Together they form a rich and diverse area, neither good nor bad. The unruly chaos is a salve, a testimony to where I have been and where I am going.
When fall (my favorite season) rolls around, I’ll visit the edges I’ve always loved: the shores of Lake Erie, the edge of the fields back home, the railroad bed in Akeley Swamp, the trails around Eaton Reservoir in the Northeast, and more. These wild edges will remind me: the possibilities of transition are endless, and I approach them with the insouciance of a chipmunk in a hedgerow. What are the edges that give you traction?
Sarah Hatfield recently retired from her position as Education Coordinator at ACNC.
The Audubon Community Nature Center builds and maintains connections between people and nature. The ACNC is located east of Route 62 between Warren and Jamestown. Trails and outdoor facilities are open from sunrise to sunset. The Nature Center is open daily from 10 a.m. to 4:30 p.m., except Sunday when it opens at 1 p.m. For more information, visit auduboncnc.org online or call (716) 569-2345.
