My attitude towards nature was developed at
a very early age through the influence of my maternal grandmother. We lived with her on the edge of downtown
Dayton, Ohio, where her house was situated between a major street and a rocky dirt alley. Except for a few neighbors'
homes, her two-story house was surrounded by businesses -- a car lot, a machine shop, and the local bar. Since most
of the ground was paved, there were few trees, even less flowers, and only sparrows, squirrels, and pigeons for
wildlife. Fortunately, Grandma loved plants and animals, so her place was like an oasis amidst the ever-growing city
desert. She always had one or more conventional pets (a dog, cat, birds, or an aquarium of tropical fish), but what
I remember most was her very tiny backyard, which seemed to have at least one of every type of flower known to mankind.
As I toddled along with her while she tended her blossoming sweet peas or her parakeets,
she probably educated me on their care and maintenance. Because I was extremely young, most of her oral instructions
must have gone in one ear and out the other; I don't remember any of them. What did stick in my budding pea-brain was
the way she conducted herself. Her actions spoke louder than words.
Grandma talked to us all -- plants, animals, and granddaughter -- as if we were all
the same. We were equally loved and scolded, nurtured, cherished, protected, and accorded dignity and respect.
Most importantly, she listened to us with her ears, eyes, and heart. Everything, alive or inanimate, was treated the
way she would want to be treated -- with balanced fairness and consideration. Since all things had a time, a season,
and a purpose, everything had an intrinsic value. Nothing was wasted or indiscriminately destroyed; my grandmother created
and re-created with what she had. Her awareness of us was all that was necessary, because she could communicate in the
true sense of the word. Grandma was a master at interpreting silent speech, proficiently multilingual when it came to
communicating with the apparently voiceless plants and non-English-speaking animals she loved so well. I could tell,
because everything responded in an obvious manner. Her flowers were large, bright, and overly abundant, and her pets
competed for her attention. Even her fish vied for the spot closest to her hand, as she encouraged them to follow her
finger along the glass. We all flourished and took joy in each other's company, united by the common bond of love
and communication that Grandma had established within us.
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By the time I was old enough to wander around outside on my own a bit, my parents bought
their first home in rural Pittsburgh, Ohio. I spent less time at my grandparents' house and more time playing in my
own backyard, where I made new friends of the flora and fauna. It never occurred to me that we were not kindred
spirits who could share each other's thoughts. To me, when I talked to the trees and insects, they listened, understood,
and even gave me comfort. I had faith in our mutual ability to connect and comprehend.
In our backyard, my father built a rope and board swing for me, which hung beneath
the leafy arms of two embracing pear trees. Every year these fruit-bearing lovers were blanketed with blooms and bees.
Incapable of keeping my shoes on while running through the clover, I became very familiar with the business ends of
those busy buzzers! But I also observed those industrious creatures and listened to their hearts. They had
no concern for little girls, but were instead preoccupied with caressing the honey out of flowers. Since I had also
tasted the sweetness sucked out of a plucked honeysuckle blossom, I understood and respected their tireless work. Sometimes
I would help them, transferring a bee from one bloom to another with my finger. We were friends who had a mutual agreement:
if I didn't hurt them, they wouldn't hurt me.
My mother must have warned me of the danger in those white-shrouded trees, and she probably
told me not to use the pear-swing at that time. I can only remember that I knew everyone else feared the bower
of bees and avoided it. But as I stood in the cool shade, surrounded by the serenade of thousands of wings and the wind
through the leaves, I couldn't resist flying too.
Perched on my seat of wood, I pushed off into the air and let my sincere young voice
join the day-song. I sang to the bees for their protection of me in their midst. My harmonious composition told
of my love, respect, and appreciation of those industrious insects. I shared my awareness of their joy of being
aloft on the wind, along with my envy and my wish to join them. Telling them that they knew me and that my intent was
not to hurt any one of them, I had complete faith that I was not only safe, but also loved in return.
Never once was I stung while swinging and singing, head touching the blooms and the
bees, so I assume my assumption was valid. I must confess that my strategy in gaining safe passage through the flight
paths of those creatures was a bit underhanded. Using the bee-psychology I had gleaned from our past conversations,
I knew for a fact that no insect loved a song better than a bee! Hearing me not with their ears but with their souls, I
knew that if I sang with love from a sincere heart, the lyrics and tune didn't really matter.
Were these the thoughts of a lunatic child or a budding naturalist? To my naive
and open mind all living things -- from sweet peas to honey bees -- not only spoke, but also listened. Inevitably
(and much to my disappointment), I was soon forced to leave the innocence of the garden and my friends of nature, to
join the human race.
