The smoke has cleared, really as well as figuratively. Southern Oregon has once again embraced it’s fifth season: fire season. It’s nestled right between the scorching heat of summer and the cool kiss of autumn. Fire’s ignite our old growth forests and our valleys fill with smoke. Breathing is hard, working is hard, thinking is hard, and general well-being feels lost.

The smoke sits thick in the valley. At first you recognize it as fog, the trees along the river are invisible from the porch. It feels humid, and the predicted daily high temperature is barely reached. The plants in the garden are gritting their teeth, and the soil barely dries. Our irrigation system has been idle for a week; strange to not water your plants in August.

Then it hailed. Big chunks of smooth ice fell from the sky along with monsoon rain. It lasted twenty minutes, maybe. Wherever the storm moved to it took the smoke with it. The first day of sunshine felt like a dream. The plants pointed their leaves to the sun in a clear display worship.

It’s hard not to watch the plants and anthropomorphize their experience and align it with my own.

When they are stressed, I am stressed. Or is it the other way around? When I am fatigued, so are they. We are fighting everything together. Sometimes it feels like everything is in opposition to us. The weather chokes us both, mites and fungus prey on them, negativity preys on me, sucking us both dry.  Yet, despite all the threats to our integrity and virility, we’re both still very much alive. I watch their flowers forming, pushing forward through whatever damage the environment has caused them. Each day, growing thicker and more beautiful despite their waning life cycle. Because of this, I am inspired. It is because of this that I wake up each morning and smile.