In an earlier Oasis post, I wrote about my local environment, my bioregion, to encourage you to look around your own natural environment throughout the year. I once again invite you to write about your own bioregion in the comments section that follows this post.
We modern people are so removed from the natural world, the rhythms of the moon phases, the shifting tides, that many of us don't have any idea of what is happening right outside our doors. The knowledge of those day-to-day changes, once so necessary for our very survival, has become reduced to a quick click on The Weather Channel to see how we should dress for the day.
A bioregion, a geographical area defined by its natural features, doesn't care a whit about political boundaries. Each bioregion is further detailed by the kinds of plants and animals and landforms that make up the area, with local human cultures included as well. By choosing to locate myself within a specific bioregion, I become part of a living community, located in a specific place. In fact, the very essence of bioregionalism is to cultivate a sense of place with the living land. Your bioregion can be thought of as your natural address on the Earth.
My particular bioregion, here just south of Atlanta, is the Georgia piedmont, which means "at the foot of the mountain" in this case the foothills of the Applachians. Home to a variety of ecosystems, the Piedmont is known for her old and weathered soils, known here as "Georgia red clay." Loblolly pine forests dominate the area's vegetation, but there are also a variety of other trees including tall oaks, hickories and tulip poplars.
This time of year, in late November, most trees have lost their summer's green. Still, a few of the great oaks cling to crinkled masses of leathery brown leaves, reluctant to part with a summer's work. The goldernrod blooms have faded, their golden yellow tops transformed into fluffy gray seedheads, a treat for wandering birds. A few bright red dogwood berries cling to bare branches, harbringers of a distant spring.
Turkey vultures soar overhead, their great wings catching the air in upturned V's, propelling their awkward bodies unsteadily through the blue sky. A murder of crows boils up from a distant stand of pines to mob a hawk, who flees the dark birds' wrath with a few easy strokes of her powerful wings. The faint sweet smell of fallen leaves fills the air. Acorns lie shining, scattered under the oaks, repositories of winter nutrients...miniature storehouses of the sun. I pick them up and examine the dark hulls for any wormholes, hefting the weight of the good ones in my palms and stuffing my jeans' pocket with a handful, as if my life depended on the harvest.
And so it does..and yours as well.
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