An any day celebration of Earth Day

Image by Dimmis Vart from Unsplash

When we care for the earth, we care for ourselves; our fates are intertwined.

— Robin Wall Kimmerer

According to this year's calendar, Earth Day 2025 was April 22. The theme was Our Power, Our Planet, with a focus on renewable energy and a goal to triple clean electricity by 2030. Check out that link for details and meaningful ways you can still participate since the effort is ongoing and not bound to a day on the calendar.

I meant to honor Earth Day with a post, but I got distracted by a stretch of dazzling sun-soaked days that interrupted the drizzly dreariness of the Pacific Northwest. Staring at a screen was incongruent with my carpe diem mood, so rather than honoring the Earth through writing, I tended to it instead.

I spent my time outside as much as possible, mostly in the dirt and focused on my immediate surroundings. I filled garden beds with herb and vegetable seeds, propagated green onion shoots, and a couple of sprouted potatoes that had escaped my meal planning. A neighbor gifted me squash and cucumber starts that added some welcomed diversity. I planted flowers in a vacant sunny spot, hoping they'll attract more pollinators than deer. I mowed the little patches of grass in front of our house, happy to see clover taking over. (I highly recommend this manual mower, btw.) As I raked up countless pinecones, I cursed the majestic trees that dropped them almost as much as I revered them. I continued my ongoing effort to dig up landscape fabric, and finally reached the point where more than half of that microplastic menace is gone. For hours I indulged my fondness for weeding, getting rid of uninvited, unwelcomed guests, most of them, ironically, having taken residence upon the landscape fabric that remains. Some of these guests I came to know by name—buffalo bur, campion rose, foxglove, and scotch broom—and decided to let them stay, for now, since they brought flowers and are minding their manners.

The difference between a flower and a weed is a judgment.

— Unknown

Several days before Earth Day proper, I set aside my shovel and spade and met one of my sons for a walk around a local lake. At the onset he mentioned the importance of learning the names of the plants around us, and how doing so leads to connection, appreciation, and respect, similar to knowing the names of our housed neighbors. While we wandered, he pointed out a handful of native plants and some of their attributes (emphasizing that many indigenous uses weren't called out). Highlights of what I learned from him correspond to the photos, clockwise from top left:

• Salmonberry brambles provide an important food source for migratory birds, since the birds arrive at the same time as the fruits appear. Climate change can disrupt the timing and create strife for the birds.

• Cones from a Douglas fir, which isn't actually a fir, nor is it a pine, spruce, or hemlock. These trees are easily identified by their thick, craggy, fire-resistant bark and cones that appear to have the hindquarters of mice sticking out from the scales. According to lore, these trees gave shelter to mice during a forest fire.

• Skunk cabbage, named for its scent, is potentially edible if prepared correctly. If not, it will make your mouth and digestive tract feel as though they're being pricked by hundreds of needles.

• Hairy bittercress, on the other hand, is entirely edible as is, with tender leaves that have a mild peppery taste akin to arugula. Now that I know, I've been foraging these plants as food instead of pulling them as weeds. They're abundant, too, thanks to ballistic dispersal that flings an explosion of seeds away from the plant.

• Osoberry shrubs (aka Indian plums) produce edible but astringent fruits that have a lousy flesh to pit ratio. The leaves taste like bitter cucumber but contain arsenic, so don't make a salad of them.

• Red maple blossoms can be battered and fried, and then served savory or sweet by adding salt, spices, powdered sugar, syrup, or honey.

• Stinging nettles are high in iron, taste similar to spinach, and are best harvested, with protection, before they begin to flower. To harvest them sustainably, take only the upper leaves and leave the bulk of the plant untouched. The leaves lose their sting after they're blanched or dried.

As we walked and talked, I came to realize how little I know about my neighboring plants. I suppose the ignorance and detachment is by design, given that this knowledge is no longer essential for modern day survival, freeing up our brains to focus on other details, like the traffic signs we follow on our way to the grocery store, and the labels we read on the processed foods, toiletries, and cleaning supplies we pull from the shelves. The necessary items we source from plants—food, medicine, clothing, shelter—have become readily available commodities, so we can buy all that we need without having to learn about plants and the gifts they provide. Besides, who has time to get to know these neighbors when there's so much stuff to take care of, both treasure and trash? We're usually too busy to bother.

Under capitalism, a forest has no value until it's cut down.

— Adam Idek Hastie

As I busily bothered myself with earthly tasks, ignoring emails, news feeds, and other digital detritus, I experienced the opposite of distraction and disconnection. The work was enriching, rewarding, and restorative—at least until the point in the day when my back had had enough. Late afternoons brought a transition from tending the earth to appreciating it. Joined by my cat and dog, we sat contentedly in the sun, smelling the floral spring air and listening to the chatter of birds, the woodpeckers being especially vocal. These simple days were simply grand. Little moments compounded to profound admiration and respect, reminding that the Earth is worth caring and fighting for, through efforts great or small.

Soon enough, the dazzle gave way to drizzle, and thankfully so. I appreciated the Earth once more, this time for its perfectly orchestrated rain to shower down upon all I'd planted.