Harrow(ing)

During an early March visit to the woods*creek*meadow, I partially solved the mystery of the large object buried on the woods-side of our creek, thanks to our builder, Tony. When I told him about noticing something spiked and metal sticking out of the ground in the woods, he offered the use of his small Bobcat excavator, already on our premises for some driveway work. I had tried to uncover it myself over a year ago when I first discovered it, but after several hours of hard digging, I had made little headway. I decided to use my energy on other tasks (e.g., removing multiflora rose vines) until I had better tools or perhaps (someone else’s) stronger muscles.

The Bobcat excavator, a mini steam shovel, and Tony’s son operating it was exactly what I was waiting for. The machine’s strong jaws grabbed onto partially exposed metal crossbars, and with two or three tries, pulled it completely out of the ground. At least a dozen long curved spikes were attached to each of the three crossbars. The mystery wasn’t completely solved because none of us standing there knew what it was called, only that it looked like it was intended to be dragged from the back of a tractor (or even possibly a mule?) to break up the ground for planting. Finding a farm implement just over the creek from where my grandparents grew vegetable crops for decades was not a shock, but why was it still there?

This thing was sturdy, made of iron, a bit rusted, the red paint worn, but still usable if anyone actually needed it. I didn’t want my buried treasure removed now that I had it out of the ground. It seemed so substantial that I felt like there must be a reason to keep it, I just didn’t know it yet. I needed to figure out soon where to put it more permanently, however, before it becomes entangled in spring and summer plant growth.

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Two days after unearthing this UFO (unidentified farming object), my cousin’s husband Hugh gave us the name for it: a harrow. According to the dictionary, a harrow is a cultivating tool set with spikes, teeth, or disks and used primarily for breaking up and smoothing the soil. So, those of us who were there for the excavation were correct about its function, even if none of us knew the actual name for it.

I was intrigued by the word for this object, harrow. An older verb form of harrow means to “torment or vex.” The spikes on this piece of equipment certainly bring to mind implements of torture, clawing hard red clay into soft submission, getting it ready to receive seeds for a new year of crops. The poetry of farming.

This word stayed on my mind; it was so apt for the way many people are feeling about the political moment we are in. We feel the knife-edged spikes cutting deep into the soul of our collective well-being. Synonyms for harrow describe our emotions about the news since the inauguration. Thousands of people have been afflicted by the loss of federal jobs. We all agonize over what to do as individuals to protect immigrants being persecuted. We anguish over the lives that will be lost because critical health research is being defunded and the coming plagues that will not be averted. We are bedeviled by the constant assault on our democracy. We curse the men who are creating this torment. And if having judges’ lives threatened in response to decisions not approved by the administration isn’t harrowing, I don’t know what is.

I happened to be (re)reading, My Traitor’s Heart, by Rian Malan, a book from the 1990s that describes in anguishing detail the conflict and violence during the years before the final dismantling of apartheid in South Africa. With this word and its meaning in my head, I now notice that Malan uses the word “harrow” dozens of time in his text to describe the cruelty and violence. This word focuses my attention on the similarities between the past and present, what people will do to maintain power. I think about how history is so filled with vexed and tormented times. I am anxious about how much more harrowing events here will become and for whom. And, I continue to ask myself what we must do to resist.

— o —

It is now the end of March. We returned to the woods*creek*meadow yesterday. I went out right away to take a look at the harrow and wonder what I should do with it. I walked along the creek hoping to catch sight of whatever signs of spring I could find, however subtle. I was happy to find some. Small yellow daisy-like flowers called St. James wort are blooming. The small pines I transplanted in the fall are holding their own. What may have lifted my spirits most were the buds I saw sprouting on the willow trees I planted after the hurricane. Not all of them are thriving, but I feel confident most will grow into trees big enough to hold down the creek bank, provide shade for creatures in the water, and a place for butterflies and moths to lay their larvae.

St. James wort, budding willow tree

I hold this sweetness in my heart, but it in no way assuages the pain from the dismantling of our government and destruction of our planet. I am still outraged, but these signs of spring deepen my conviction that it is still important to carry on with what is ours to do to resist and care for others. I am glad that there are lawyers and scientists and policymakers who are using their skills and talents and passion to fight the insanity. They need our support in whatever way we can provide it. It is also important that we all keep doing whatever it is to protect each other and the earth to get through to the other side. No act of love is too small.

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