[Trigger Warning] #s: suicide
Psithurism.
The word describes the sound of wind blowing through the leaves of trees.
I knew psithurism before I knew my mother’s voice. She and my father were so young when I was conceived, and life together was not right for them. Neither had money. They relinquished me for adoption.
A lawyer assigned me a new mother and a new father. But there was a mother-sized void in my soul, and a father-shaped hole in my heart, and try as they might, the love of my raising parents could not mend that wound of my spirit. My first mother and father were gone.
I did appreciate my raising parents so I feared that my grief would hurt them. I went to the forest to grieve in private.
I lay on the earth, opening my senses to the rhythms of nature. The hum of insects in the field and the calls of frogs in the pond became my mother’s voice and comforted me. I used the sun, the soil, and the water in the creek to regulate my distressed nervous system. I developed relationship with the land and knew the planet to be my family.
In adulthood, I took up trade as a naturalist. I learned the names and qualities of plants and pollinators and worked to preserve the unique ecosystems of my region.
This region was renowned for its natural beauty and resources. Rivers, lakes, and bountiful fruit trees attracted many tourists here, visitors who would wine and dine, hike and sail, shop and spend.
For most locals, our region is economically depressed. We serve the tourists for their money then return to aging farmhouses, trailers and even rustic shelters in our rural communities, as the dread of long, bitter winters gnaws at the corners of our minds. We rely on habitat to bring the tourists, to heat our homes, to feed our families. We fish and hunt. We grow and harvest.
One of the greatest threats to habitat here is invasive species.
Species that are considered “invasive” are species that come to an area from somewhere else, and then populate their new area aggressively because they have characteristics that enable them to out-compete local species, causing harm to native ecosystems.
I’ve had success persuading locals to manage invasive species which cause direct harm to people and property. People will put in effort to rid their land of noxious weeds that poison their pets and cause burning rashes on children’s skin. People will work to eradicate bamboo-like plants which crack the cement of their driveways and foundations of their homes.
I have had less success persuading people to manage invasive species for the sake of habitat preservation alone. I understand. This work costs labor and money. There is no time. People must fix their vehicles and equipment; they must cook and clean. They need to play with their children and be together with their loved ones in their limited free time. I understand. Support from the government is non-existent and regulations are lax. Our personal resources are exhausted.
Berberis chrysophyllus (commonly called Goldenberry, not to be confused with Physalis peruviana, which is also known as Golden Berry), is one such plant that does not directly harm people or property.
This shrub, originating from a distant country, arrived in our region in 1964, sold as an ornamental garden plant. It quickly gained popularity for its hardiness and apparent insect-repellant qualities. Its metallic-looking leaves are attractive to the eye and so it became sought-after at plant nurseries. I remember helping my raising mother to select several Goldenberry plants to place near our mailbox; our neighbors had created a privacy hedge along the front of their property with the shrub, and mom wanted to do the same.
It was not long before Goldenberry escaped its curated positions in gardens and landscaping. Within a decade of its introduction, it could be found growing along roadsides, in fields and wetlands. It seemed there was no soil in which it could not thrive.
Goldenberry grows quickly, shading-out groundcover, ferns and the wildflowers which support butterflies and other pollinators. Its allelopathic roots alter the chemistry of the soil in which it grows, killing other plant species.
By 1990, creeks and small lakes were disappearing into dense thickets of Goldenberry, greatly reducing the habitat of aquatic insects, a crucial food source for fish and birds. Biologists became alarmed as frog populations declined.
In 1993, it was discovered that Goldenberry is an ideal host to Ixodes bicoloratus (commonly known as the Two-colored tick). It’s speculated that Two-colored ticks arrived on the bodies livestock transported from the southern part of the country. A warming climate and the presence of sprawling acres of Goldenberry created the ideal conditions for this insect to thrive. Cows, sheep and pigs bitten by the ticks began to die off.
The symptoms of the disease spread by Two-colored ticks are not noticeable until irreversible neurological damage has already occurred. In 1997, the deaths of two local children and one adult were attributed to the disease spread by the ticks. Tourists cancelled their hotel, dinner, and excursion reservations, opting for other destinations as tick-related deaths of animals and people mounted.
In the year 2000, a fungus new to our region arrived, hosted by firewood that campers had brought from the western part of the country. Unburned logs left in our forests became ground zero for this new infestation. Unlike the native wildflowers which failed in lands populated by Goldenberry, this fungus flourished in the altered soil. By 2006, grape crops and fruit trees became infected by the fungus, and by 2010, our harvest was considerably diminished, accelerated by the reduction in population of pollinating insects and birds. Local farms began to fail, prompting the closing of wineries and small businesses. In 2011, Greg Donalson, who made a living growing peach and cherry trees, shot himself in the face. His body was found a week later in his collapsing orchard.
The mood of our communities darkened. Tourism further declined.
Those tourists who did continue to visit arrived to find their favorite shops under-stocked and their preferred restaurants understaffed as our local youths fled the region in pursuit of more stable communities in which to build their lives. In years to come, disappointed visitors would write harsh and scathing reviews of our businesses online.
By 2015, our rural communities were in economic crisis. As the costs to heat our homes rose, our incomes decreased. In 2016, 22-year-old James Kaminski attempted theft of a plow truck to sell. He was shot by the owner and died in an ambulance en route to the hospital. The following year, I attended the funeral of James’ mother, who did not survive the loss of her son. She had served as a council representative, one of the few local leaders who prioritized the management of invasive species.
That winter was particularly harsh. Aleksander and Lisa Nowak were one of several families who struggled to afford heat for their homes. Nowak’s Diner, which had served incredible fruit pies, had shut down in 2014 and by Christmas, 2017, their savings had run out. In February of 2018, the bodies of Aleksander, Lisa, and nine-year-old daughter Lucy, were found in a snowdrift outside their trailer, barefoot with boots discarded nearby, a bizarre indicator of severe hypothermia. I remember Lucy once telling me that her favorite animal was the fox and that she hoped to become a park ranger someday.
Neighbors have lost trust in one another as crime and substance abuse in our communities escalated and became rampant.
By 2020, biodiversity in our region was in free-fall. Habitats that were once thriving and busy have become still monocultures of invasive plants. The problem has taken root in neighboring regions. Reports indicate that those ecosystems are rapidly deteriorating.
Now, in 2022, decades of digging and removing plants have impacted my joints and spine and I live in a great deal of physical pain.
For years, I faithfully dug up and removed Goldenberry from my childhood creek, but I can no longer do the work, and the plant grows so quickly.
I have no one to continue my effort. Local youths who I could have trained have left for the cities, potential hires from other parts of the country are dissuaded by this region’s reputation, and I avoided men and motherhood; I have no children. To give birth and see the face of my missing first mother or father in the face of my child would have broken me. The creek has stopped flowing.
I lay on the earth, opening my senses to the rhythms of nature. I listen for the hum of insects in the tall grasses and the calls of frogs in the pond, aching to hear the voice of the earth, for my mother’s voice to comfort me. But birds no longer chatter in the trees. The wind blows through shining fields of Berberis chrysophyllus, but this landscape is eerily silent.
My family is gone.
I think am ready to go now, too. Last month, I discovered a telltale bullseye mark on my scalp, the result of a Two-colored tick bite. I think I will not seek treatment.
To my dear colleagues and to any who read this account, I beg you, understand this threat of ecosystem collapse is real and consider what can happen to your communities. Please, continue work to protect habitat, wherever you are and in whatever capacity you can. I implore you, do not lose hope. Your service is needed.