Eight Earth Days Later

Because sometimes, a sprig survives the winter.

Brigid Colver

Eight years ago, April 22 was our firstborn’s due date. She didn’t come for ten more days (I am still holding that grudge). So, instead of having a baby, we planted a little sprig in honor of Earth Day.

You know the ones? Tiny, evergreen twigs wrapped in single-use plastic and handed out in bulk at schools? That’s what we had. So that’s what we planted.

Planting small things feels so paltry compared to the scale of environmental degradation we’re up against. And in the Midwestern U.S., those small things so often fail in the face of brutal winters.

But in the vein of Mother Teresa’s* guidance, we did it anyway. Because sometimes a sprig survives the winter, grows into a potted tree, travels to several states and homes, and then thrives when it roots in the Michigan soil.

That sprig is now a chonky little evergreen. That unborn child is now a feisty little second grader. Neither is solving the climate crisis. But the tree captures rainwater, hosts a nest or two, exhales oxygen, and brings us joy. Our daughter paints beautifully, hugs her brothers when they cry, delights in rocks, and brings us joy.

I guess what I’m trying to say is: most of us only offer small things. Small kindnesses, small gifts. We can plant a tree. We can paint a frog. We can capture rainwater. We can love a child.

We can look at the state of the world and know that what we do isn’t enough. Then, we can do it anyway; like a tree, or a small child, or frightened parents-to-be.

*“The good you do today, may often be forgotten. Do good anyway.” - Mother Teresa. …Sort of. It’s complicated.