I've been thinking about land and how we call it property

I went on a walk today to the River Preserve, but I didn’t make it all the way to the river.  I almost made it, but at the last house there were dogs barking wildly.  I turned around as soon as I heard them because I didn’t need an encounter to know I wasn’t welcomed.

The job of dogs is to protect people’s property.  And they are good at their job.  Dogs know that their owners don’t like to share their property with anyone.

I walked through someone’s field on my way to the River Preserve.  It was a cornfield—unplanted.  I cut through it because that way was shorter than going on the road, but I felt nervous the whole time.  I was afraid someone would see me and tell me to get off, maybe even call the police.  No one did, or at least if they saw me, they didn’t do anything about it.  On the strip of grass that ran down the middle of the field, meant—I imagine—for irrigation equipment, I saw a mouse.  I watched it scurry through a tunnel in the grass blades and disappear down a hole.  I wonder if the mouse knew it was trespassing, that we weren’t supposed to be there.

When I passed a field of wheat, I thought of Jesus and his disciples--how they picked heads of wheat from someone’s field and were reported to the authorities.  I guess it was the same even then: the people who owned the land thought they had the right to everything that grew on it.  I wonder if I would be reported to the authorities too if someone caught me picking wheat.

The head I picked was green and soft, the kernels still milky white.  Picking it made me nervous, but it made me feel brave too.  I’m glad Jesus didn’t let the authorities stop him.  He knew that nature doesn’t belong to one person, that the land and the things that live on it are gifts for everyone.

I’m sitting under a tree on the edge of a soybean field.  I stopped here to eat my lunch since I couldn’t eat it by the river as I had planned.  I’m not stealing anyone’s harvest or messing with their crops, but I still feel a little bit wary.  Every time a truck passes behind me—I say truck because people don’t drive cars in this part of the county—I look up from my food and watch it, praying the driver won’t notice me.

Why do I feel like I’m doing something wrong by walking the county roads and sitting down by a tree to eat and write?  Why do I feel like a trespasser on this land?  I think it’s because here, the land is property.  The land is something that can be bought and sold and belongs to one person at a time.  The way people see it, this tree providing me shade belongs to someone else.

It is not the tree that doesn’t want me here.  I wouldn’t be surprised if it actually enjoys having someone to shade from the baking sun.  And I bet the ant that just snagged a pumpkin seed from my salad is happy for my presence too.  I pause from my writing to watch it drag the seed across the log I am sitting on and down into the grass.  I smile at the ant because it reminds me that even if the landowner and the dogs see me as an intruder, nature does not.  

When I leave, I say goodbye to the tree and the ant.  I will remember them.  You can only be a trespasser on property; on the land, you’re a friend.