Numen: (noun) A spiritual force or influence often identified with a natural object, phenomenon, or place. (Plural: numina.) (Source: Merriam-Webster online dictionary.)
Our defunct farm growing up was abutted to the south by another defunct farm. Beyond this--if one were to cross over this neighboring farm--there was another defunct farm. On the other side of the wooded ridge was yet another. At the edge of the furthest field, woods stretched for half a mile past the property line. Across the road was an undeveloped county park encompassing a small mountain. Altogether this made for hundreds of acres of fields and woods around our house.
The area was large but the fields themselves were not. They had been cleared in the eighteenth century. They were cozy and old on North American time scales. There was a shady sunken dirt lane. There were sections of woods with heavy trees that were reputed to be virgin eastern forest. There were oak trees, maple trees, ash, beech, and tulip. In the unmown fields, there were Queen Anne's lace, goldenrod, purple loosestrife, daisies, buttercups, and violets. The fields and woods would cast a changing mood. Now and then a hint of medieval Europe. Sometimes colonial American. Other times pre-colonial American.
The fields had hedgerows between them. The hedgerows had begun life as stonerows--long rows of stones that had been carried to and piled along the edges, when the fields had been under cultivation. Cherry trees, bittersweet vines, raspberry bushes, and other plants could not grow out of the stone pile--it being too deep with stone--but they grew up all along the edges, forming an often impenetrable wall of vegetation on both sides, with a hollow center, a kind of arched natural hallway or tunnel running the length of each side of the field.
The fields each had a different name and character, and the hedgerows were the boundary between them. In many places, the hedgerows were the property line itself. On walks, or on rides on a tractor or other vehicle, often the most thrilling part was where the farm road passed between fields, because it was there that you would go under the arch of tree limbs and sweep out the other side into a completely different vista.
Sometimes we ventured into the hedgerows to play. Later, when we were older, it became necessary to enter them to post no hunting signs. This would be in September, before the start of hunting season, with the throbbing green of summer subsiding and the foliage showing hints of auburn and amber.
Inside the hedgerows, there was a distinctly otherworldly feel: Cooler and darker, but without the contrasting light and shadow of the open field. The visible would be reduced to a single dimension--the tunnel of trunk, plant, and stone in one direction, looking one way; the tunnel of trunk, plant, and stone in the opposite direction, looking the other way. You'd feel awe to be in such natural architecture, but slightly unnerved, as when you are supposedly alone in a large building, but have the persistent sense that someone else is there.
Seneca captures an analogous feeling where the wooded environment is more majestic, in Letter 41:
If ever you have come upon a grove that is full of ancient trees which have grown to an unusual height, shutting out a view of the sky by a veil of pleached and interwining branches, then the loftiness of the forest, the seclusion of the spot, and your marvel at the thick unbroken shade in the midst of the open spaces, will prove to you the presence of deity.
There is deity in hedgerows, too. February 23rd was Terminalia, for Terminus, the god of boundaries. Ovid, in Fasti Book II, describes Terminus and Terminalia:
When night has passed, let the god be celebrated / With customary honor, who separates the fields with his sign. / Terminus, whether a stone or a stump buried in the earth, / You have been a god since ancient times. / You are crowned from either side by two landowners, / Who bring two garlands and two cakes in offering. / An altar's made: here the farmer's wife herself / Brings coals from the warm hearth on a broken pot. / The old man cuts wood and piles the logs with skill, / And works at setting branches in the solid earth. / Then he nurses the first flames with dry bark, / While a boy stands by and holds a wide basket. / When he's thrown grain three times into the fire / The little daughter offers the sliced honeycombs. / Others carry wine: part of each is offered to the flames: / The crowd, dressed in white, watch silently. / ... Neighbors gather sincerely, and hold a feast, / And sing your praises sacred Terminus: / 'You set bounds to peoples, cities, great kingdoms; / Without you every field would be disputed. / You curry no favor: you aren't bribed with gold, / Guarding the land entrusted to you in good faith.'
(It is interesting to note here that the fire is the means through which the offering reaches Terminus. This recalls the function of Agni (as in 'ignition'), Vesta's Hindu counterpart.
The fields and woods where I grew up have long since been replaced by houses, roads, and lawns. The developers didn't even track the pre-existing geography--human or natural. They imposed their own. Paved roads ignored the farm road's hedgerow arch, instead cutting straight through the center. (I was there the day one large yellow machine started bashing away on the other side of one of the hedgerows, where the new road would go. At first I didn't even realize what it was doing.) Hill and landform were themselves reshaped. Instead of marking a boundary--the last I saw of them, after the houses had gone up--the remaining parts of hedgerow looked more like odd peninsulas of tree, protruding outward to awkward purpose, unfinished business not matched up with the new landscape. Or if by chance conforming to the new pattern, just waste-like places, where blowing detritus would collect, subsidiary to the more important yards, driveways, and homes.
Change is inevitable, and my hedgerows are now lost in the past, lost in time.
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