Sirens and Birdsong

"Waters are rising
Forests are burning
Hearts always hurt more
While they are learning
...
Out of the sirens
Might come the birdsong
Out of the silence
Might come the love song
After the love song
Might come the sunrise"
 - Birdsong, by Regina Spektor

 There's a type of cacti succulent called Agave Americana (century plant or other variants) which is popular in Texas landscaping. They, like many plants which were blanketed in snow and ice for a week during a rare winter storm in February, didn't fare so well. As soon as temperatures began to rise and the snow had melted, the leaves of most of the cacti had become brown and wilted. Overall, they looked very defeated, except for one curious part; the leaves in the very center remained intact, pointing straight upwards. 

The first handful of times I saw the pointed leaves, my honest, initial impression was of a crude middle finger. I laughed to myself, imagining the poor plants defiantly throwing the bird to the unexpectedly harsh weather, as though to say, "Oh yeah? Well, I'm doing my best to survive this, so here's one back to you!" 

Then one day at lunch I was taking a walk and noticed a cluster of mostly-wilted cacti, only this time, I saw the leaves pointing skyward and pictured hands pressed together in prayer. Their defiance was still cheeky, but also reverent; a thanksgiving for survival and a benediction for spring to hasten on its way. "We're alive, we made it, thank you."

Slowly, many people began trimming the dead leaves off the cacti, and by trimming, I mean lopping them off right at the base. It looked harsh: a complete amputation of all the leaves except for the ones persistently pointing up. During another walk, I noted how the interior of the leaves is white and looks tough and stringy like sugarcane, as though it may stubbornly resist against the blade of a machete or other tool of choice.

Once they were so brutally (compassionately) trimmed, the cacti took on the look of giant pineapples. The tips point up cheerily, while the rounded base with its pattern of lopped leaves has a similarly Fibonacci sequence appearance. I’ll be fascinated to watch their recovery.

During that walk, as I saw the trimmed cacti and piles of dead leaves, it led me to note other signs of both destruction and renewal around the neighborhood. There was a car which had been hit right where it was parked along the curb, fragments of metal and red taillight littering the ground like morbid confetti. A mailbox whose wooden post had been broken in two, the bent mailbox propped up so as to continue to serve. Lawns which were neatly trimmed, and lawns which were overrun with weeds. Colorful lawn chairs, and rusty ones. A miniature library on the edge of someone’s yard which appeared to be freshly painted. 

I passed a home whose door and windows had plywood slabs newly nailed across them. A piece of paper hung in the window which said Notice in large letters, though from the sidewalk I couldn’t see what was written underneath.  I walked on, wondering what it said, when I decided to find out. I made a loop, returning to the house and stepping brazenly up the walkway to the door. The notice, it turned out, simply listed the company which was managing the property, and offered a number to call in case of emergency. I wondered why the home was suddenly boarded up. It is kitty-corner to my favorite park in the neighborhood, so like the recovering cacti, I'll keep an eye out for it, hoping for new life. 

In time, there will be few traces left of the winter storm which caused such devastation. Burst pipes have been mended. Power has been restored. The dead leaves of cacti and other plants will have been trimmed and hauled away. Everywhere, signs of spring are singing forth. Bluebonnets and redbuds are blooming, and green leaves are appearing. One day, the lopped-off leaves of the cacti will be a faint memory. In the neighborhood, the smashed mailbox and taillight will be fixed. Maybe the house will be purchased, un-boarded, and filled with life inside to match the thriving plant life outside. Maybe the new residents will plant some Agave Americana in their yard. They've certainly proven to be hearty plants. I want to be like them when weathering a storm; defiant with a bit of snark, and thoroughly thankful. Lop off what has gone bad and let me continue to grow strong, with roots down deep.