You know, I never paid much attention to the word "biodiversity" until a few years back. Sounded like something my granddaughter would learn about in her environmental science class, not something a 68-year-old woman in suburban Boston needed to worry about. Boy, was I wrong about that.
It started when I began spending more time in my backyard after my husband died. I mean, I'd always had the garden – nothing fancy, just some tomatoes and a few flower beds – but I'd never really *looked* at what was going on out there. When you're working full-time and raising kids, you don't have time to sit and watch bees, you know? You just want the grass mowed and the weeds pulled.
But there I was, retired and rattling around this too-big house, and I started noticing things. Like how the bees that visited my black-eyed Susans were different from the ones on the lavender. How the cardinals that nested in my neighbor's hedge had a whole routine – they'd hit my bird feeder first thing in the morning, then work their way through Mrs. Peterson's yard next door, then circle back around dinnertime.
I got curious – probably for the first time since I was a kid, honestly. Started taking walks around the neighborhood instead of just driving everywhere. There's this little patch of woods behind the shopping center that I'd driven past thousands of times but never actually walked through. Figured I'd check it out.
That first walk… I don't know how to explain it without sounding like some kind of nature mystic, which I'm definitely not. But it was like discovering a whole world that had been there all along. The smell hit me first – that rich, earthy scent of decomposing leaves and damp soil that takes me right back to playing in the woods behind our house in Worcester when I was eight years old.
Everything was connected in ways I'd never thought about. The fallen logs were covered in moss and mushrooms, slowly breaking down to feed the soil. Squirrels were burying acorns that would become oak trees (or get eaten by other critters). Birds were eating seeds and berries, then… well, you know what they were doing with those seeds later. Creating new plants all over the place.
I started going back regularly, different times of day, different seasons. Spring was incredible – I never knew there were so many different wildflowers that bloom before the trees leaf out. Bloodroot, trout lily, spring beauty. Names I learned from a field guide I bought at the library book sale. In summer, the canopy was so thick it felt like being in a green cathedral. Fall brought migrating warblers that I could hear but rarely see, flitting around in the treetops.
But here's what really got to me – I started noticing what *wasn't* there anymore. My mother used to talk about clouds of monarch butterflies when she was young. I saw maybe three all last summer. The spring peepers that used to be so loud you couldn't sleep with the windows open? I have to strain to hear them now. And don't get me started on fireflies – my grandkids have barely seen any, when my yard used to be full of them on summer evenings.
I mentioned this to my granddaughter Emma during one of our phone calls, and she got all excited. Turns out she's been learning about something called the "insect apocalypse" in school – apparently we've lost something like 40% of insect species in recent decades. Which doesn't sound like a big deal until you realize that insects pollinate most of our food crops and form the base of pretty much every food web.
That got me reading more, which was depressing as hell, frankly. Habitat destruction, pesticide use, climate change – we've been systematically destroying the web of life that supports everything, including us. And I'd been part of it without even thinking about it. All those years of perfect lawn care (my husband was obsessed with having the greenest grass on the block), buying plants at big box stores without considering where they came from or whether local wildlife could actually use them, spraying for mosquitoes every summer.
So I decided to do things differently. Started with the obvious stuff – stopped using pesticides and chemical fertilizers. Let part of the lawn go wild, which horrified some of my neighbors but attracted more birds and butterflies than I'd seen in years. Planted native species instead of the usual suburban landscaping fare. Turns out local bees and birds don't know what to do with forsythia and Bradford pears – they need plants they evolved with.
Put in a small pond using one of those pre-formed liners from the garden center. Nothing elaborate, just a kidney-shaped thing about four feet across. Within two weeks I had frogs. Within a month, dragonflies were laying eggs. Birds started using it for drinking and bathing. Amazing how quickly wildlife finds water.
I joined the local conservation group – bunch of people my age and older, mostly, plus some younger families. We do cleanup days at the town forest, plant native shrubs along the river, remove invasive species like bittersweet and autumn olive. It's good work, though I have to admit some of these invasive plants are tougher than I am. Spent three hours last Saturday trying to dig out one multiflora rose bush and I think it won.
The group taught me about something called "ecological services" – basically all the free work that nature does for us. Wetlands filter water and prevent flooding. Trees clean the air and moderate temperature. Soil organisms break down waste and create fertility. Pollinators enable food production. We've been taking all this for granted while systematically destroying the systems that provide it.
It's like dismantling your house while you're still living in it, honestly.
I've gotten more involved in town politics too, which is something I never thought I'd do. Went to selectmen's meetings to argue against a proposed development that would have filled in one of our last remaining wetlands. Spoke up about the town's landscaping contracts – why are we paying to plant ornamental grasses from China when we could support native plant nurseries and actually help local wildlife?
Not everyone appreciates my newfound environmental activism. My daughter thinks I've gone a bit overboard – she rolled her eyes when I gave her grandkids field guides for Christmas instead of video games. Some neighbors definitely think I'm the crazy lady with the messy yard. But you know what? At my age, I care more about leaving something decent for my grandchildren than about fitting in with suburban expectations.
The hardest part is feeling like I'm playing catch-up. I spent sixty-plus years not paying attention to any of this, just living the standard American lifestyle of consumption and convenience without thinking about consequences. And now I'm trying to make up for lost time while watching climate change and habitat destruction accelerate.
But I've seen what's possible when you start working with natural systems instead of against them. My little backyard habitat attracts more wildlife now than it ever did when it was a perfect lawn. The native plants are tougher and need less water once established. The birds and bees and butterflies that show up… it's like hosting a party every day during growing season.
I keep a journal now of what I see – which flowers are blooming, what birds are visiting, when the first frogs start calling in spring. Partly because I'm curious about patterns, but also because I want to document what's here before it's gone. Emma is helping me identify things using some app on her phone where you take pictures and it tells you what species you're looking at. Technology being useful for once.
The more I learn about local ecosystems, the more amazed I am that any of it still works. Everything is connected to everything else in ways that scientists are still figuring out. Remove one piece – say, the native bees – and plants can't reproduce. Remove the plants, and birds lose their food sources. Remove the birds, and insect populations explode or crash, depending on the species.
We've been conducting this massive experiment on the only planet we've got, and we're just starting to understand what we've lost. But we haven't lost everything yet. There are still woods and wetlands and prairies that can be protected. Native species that can be brought back. Young people who care about this stuff and have their whole lives ahead of them to work on solutions.
That's what keeps me going, honestly – knowing that my small efforts are part of something bigger. Every native plant I put in might feed a few more caterpillars, which might support a few more birds. Every invasive species I remove gives natives a better chance to survive. Every person I convince to stop using pesticides creates a little more safe habitat.
It's not enough, probably. The scale of what we're facing is enormous, and individual actions can only do so much. But it's what I can do with the time I have left, and it connects me to the natural world in ways I never experienced before. Turns out you don't have to go to some exotic wilderness to find amazing biodiversity – it's right there in our own neighborhoods, if we just pay attention and give it half a chance.
Donna’s retired but not slowing down. She spends her days gardening, reusing, and finding peace in simpler living. Her writing blends reflection with realism—gentle reminders that sustainability starts at home, in daily habits and quiet choices.
