I love the HBO series “The Leftovers.” It is based on the 2011 novel by Tom Perrotta. There is something about this television series that continues to serve my need for a bit of escape. Some of the moments in episodes make me want to say and point at the television: “Yes. That.” The characters and/or plot lines deeply resonate with me and I have difficulty explaining why. Like, as we endure the COVID-19 pandemic and all its vagaries, I might choose to be among those who stand outside someone’s house in a white jumpsuit, smoking a cigarette while holding a notepad and pencil, because I am taking a vow of silence in the wake of a global event that disappeared millions of people. And, you don’t want people to forget that in a wink of an eye, things got really terrible. In this moment of a global pandemic and election ridiculousness, rewatching “The Leftovers” is one escape hatch from my current state of powerlessness, unmanageability and wait. At least until I fall asleep. Then, morning comes and I am back to the uncertainty, frustration, and breath-holding.

At my work, I like take my tweens on short hikes instead of muddling through another lesson in the outdoor classrooms/ disaster tents that I have to share with my colleagues. Into the mixed redwood oak forest we go, despite the fact that I carefully created lesson plans for the day and it just doesn’t work. Although this is my fourth year teaching on this campus and I have climbed and hiked many trails on this mountain, I have never in past years noticed a vestige of summer on these hikes. There is a carpet of Edelweiss-like plants covering the sunniest side of the campus trails and looking brilliant at this time of the year. Low to the ground and light green, it looks like a fluffy, cute Germander cousin that horticulturalist might considered a weed. They might give it this classification (there is no class) because in the driest months of October /November (and my, it has been a dry one) this one is alive. It is as if the forest fairies water that hillside when nobody is looking.

Walking behind the kids as they tromp through the trail is pretty nice, because the tromping releases this unknown ground dweller’s Sagey scent, and then my pandemic-teacher mind is transported. I am no longer focused on how loud the kids are talking, so loud that they cannot hear the wonderful sounds of this mountain. I am no longer perturbed that several students forgot to stay 6-feet apart and they have allowed their body magnets to operate at will. “I don’t care,” I sing to myself that refrain from that cartoon about ‘Pierre.‘ Then, I sniff deeply, zoom out my vision, to take in the hillside and my happy students.

Yes. I am the person who, when walking past the random oak in the forest, will reach out and pass my hand over its moss-bearded trunk. If I see one of those ‘Breath of Heaven’ shrubs (Coleonema pulchellum), I will go out of my way to deliberately run fingertips over its billowy pink flowered tops.

However on this day, I notice this alpine-like ground cover on the sunny campus trail. It’s beautiful. I don’t know the name. And, it is deceptive, since one of its hidden features is noticed by one of my “tree-named” students who ran back down the trail to me (in the midst of my scented stupor) to show me that her fingers were covered in tiny spines. Yes, a sign that it is indeed a weed. A closer examination of the plant reveals the stems are covered in tiny spines hidden below the light-green velvet leaves. (In the later months, this plant turns a light brown/green as pictured)

If I am the person to touch plants, I know to observe first when something is growing in a dry place, that it must have a special survival tactic. Spines are not always a protective deterrent to herbivores. Sometimes they function to shade or insulate, or to protect their extremities from the extremes. Thus, along with the secret help from the forest fairies, these remnants, these leftovers from somewhere, will survive this dystopian present. And I in this moment choose to view the weeds as they are: glorious, stubborn survivors. Lovely.