On mystery and revelation in new seeds, old trees, and ancient names
We walk down the hill and through the willows. A gentle May rain mists the air, delicate droplets that seem to float instead of fall as they illumine the green grasses and trees. Nasturtiums bloom in golden orange bursts against the green. We cross Topanga Creek, walking on four wooden planks that bridge the water, then turn right and walk single-file up along the ridge. The trail leads to a broad field nestled within the Santa Monica Mountains, framed by trees and filled with yellow, purple, and white flowers. I feel the mountains, the trees, the wind whisper of ancient memories.
The night before, I read a Los Angeles Times story on efforts to reclaim the language of the Tongva people. I discover “Topanga” comes from the name of the Tongva village Topaanga that once was there, on the western shores of the land they called Tovaangar, which stretched from Palos Verdes to San Bernardino and from Saddleback Mountain to the San Fernando Valley. I learn about the forced migration of the Tongva people to Spanish missions beginning in the late 18th century, the fading of their language from modern times—of 90 or so native languages once spoken in California, less than a third survive—and the efforts of people to revive the language today.
I am haunted. Through a failure of imagination or education, or both, I have always thought of Los Angeles as relentlessly young and modern. Nothing in Los Angeles looks old. The story of the Tongva opens my eyes to how ancient this land is, with history that is dear but too rarely told, much of it now lost.
I am grateful. I know now what I did not know before. When I go to Topanga tomorrow, I will think of the first people who lived there. I know too little of their lives, but I will hold onto what little I know, to honor them.
Sixty of us, here for our company’s volunteer event with the non-profit organization TreePeople, gather in the field of beautiful flowers. The TreePeople project leader explains our goal for the day: to pull out all the flowers, because they are invasive non-native species. The yellow flowers? Black mustard, which chokes out native plants and dries into brown stalks that become wildfire flash fuels. The purple and white flowers? Wild radish, another bully to native plant species and sometimes toxic to animals. The nasturtiums I admired on the hike in? They smother native seedlings and shrubs, and anything that harms native plants also harms the native animals that forage for them.
Oddly, I'm delighted by the directive to pull out the pretty flowers. The land has surprised me again, revealing the distance between my understanding and its truth. I am small and simple; it is vast and mysterious. This comforts me.
I start to work and am astonished once more. Though I am small and simple, I can work with this vast and mysterious land. We are partners. How is this possible? The gratitude born within me last night grows. It must be visible, I think, because it feels like more than my body can contain.
I am enchanted. I ask if I can volunteer with TreePeople. They are kind and patient with my enthusiastic babbling and say yes.
This summer, I began volunteering with TreePeople. They continue to be kind and patient, teaching me about the mountains, plants, and animals, and how their work helps. The more I learn, the more I realize how much there is to learn and how much I will never know. The tiniest sage seed makes me feel as small as the mountains do.
Sage—paa’or in Tongva—do the Southern California native species of this genus recognize the first name humans gave them? Black walnuts, extending their radicles, those first embryonic roots into the cold dark soil, breaking open in response to sun and water to reveal new green life—what other secrets do they hold within? What is there to hear “in the hush / where each leaf in the speech / of leaves is a sufficient syllable”?
My heart aches with these questions, but it is the ache that accompanies growth. I see familiar things in unfamiliar ways, and as new vistas expand before my eyes, so do the mists of the unknown. How beautiful it is to work with what is unknowable and worth knowing.
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