I walked during lunch today--along the dirt road across the railroad tracks, flanked by quiet homes on one side, pasture and mountains on the other. A sublime afternoon, with the late fall sun warming the remaining tansy leaves by the roadside, steeping their spicy fragrance into the air like a fine-brewed tea. In the tall aspen grove on the north side, tree trunks shone a dignified white, bright and unmoved by the fluttering loss of leaves. The two apple trees in the smaller pasture stood bare and slightly huddled with experience; the dry grasses rasped and rustled randomly in pale gold.
This is the type of day that is autumn's kind parting gift to us as we move into the colder, darker days of the year. Time is suspended for a few hours, and if we are still, we are able to notice the thousand small beauties released by summer's dying. Snowberries wait, white and ripe, on their bushes for whatever creature seeks them; chickadees flit and forage through the smaller trees; field mice scurry occasionally beneath the bent grass; and the landscape has matured from variations on green into an entire palette of straw gold, deep mustard, rust brown, honey, forest and crimson. The sky is bluer than in spring, as if it has aged and ripened along with earth's fruits. And the drier air wanders more freely, with a clarity not earned by summer's heat.
Treasure the small things in the season, whichever one you're in. We may repeat seasons, we may take them for granted, we may assume we know what they're about and not take the time to look again. But Now is what we have, and when we give it our attention, there is no telling what new joy we may discover there.
Monday, November 5, 2007
Sunday, November 4, 2007
late asters
A pocket of sun, a glint on cold water, the lull of September warmth and a glacial stream's clear notes. No wonder these purple asters want to hold on, are reluctant to give up to the inevitable.
I was that way myself a few weeks ago when the weather turned cold and dreary too suddenly, too soon. I was not ready for the change, wanted to hold on to sunshine, felt disoriented from my resistance to autumn. But the effects of resisting change are one of the few constants in life: it always makes it harder, no matter what.
Fortunately, the sun came back for a spell just long enough to let me align myself with the seasons' will. Sentimental and neurotic as it may sound, I actually needed closure with summer. But sentimental and neurotic were how I felt, and summer obliged.
But after all, maybe the asters weren't holding on. Often observations are tinged with projection, and I could see a hundred different stories in a single plant's life if I wanted to. The flowers are just being themselves, until it's time for them to be different. Maybe that's all there is for any of us to do. Just be ourselves.
I was that way myself a few weeks ago when the weather turned cold and dreary too suddenly, too soon. I was not ready for the change, wanted to hold on to sunshine, felt disoriented from my resistance to autumn. But the effects of resisting change are one of the few constants in life: it always makes it harder, no matter what.
Fortunately, the sun came back for a spell just long enough to let me align myself with the seasons' will. Sentimental and neurotic as it may sound, I actually needed closure with summer. But sentimental and neurotic were how I felt, and summer obliged.
But after all, maybe the asters weren't holding on. Often observations are tinged with projection, and I could see a hundred different stories in a single plant's life if I wanted to. The flowers are just being themselves, until it's time for them to be different. Maybe that's all there is for any of us to do. Just be ourselves.
Saturday, November 3, 2007
autumn path
Autumn has crept in on us with chilly tendrils and longer nights, morning cold in our nostrils and frost on the windshield. Although I've seen the occasional tenacious daisy or aster, or relentless yellow tansy, the flowers have surrendered to the greater strength in their roots for the next six months, and as the trees tuck themselves inward, they reward us with a last eye-feast of color, the inverse of spring.
However reluctantly, now we let go of our flower gardens and short sleeves, long outdoor evenings and the assumption of a sunny weekend. New gifts lie in store now, as we take stock of what to carry on into winter and what to pare away. We think toward holidays, having enough warm clothing, and playing in the snow. But our roots are important, too--the season's cycles are a way of recognizing that we have our own, although usually not so clearly defined. We are growing things, and our different seasons--of success, drudgery, elation, challenge, barely making it, and contentment--each serve their purpose toward our development, if we choose, in the greater, grander picture of our individual journeys.
However reluctantly, now we let go of our flower gardens and short sleeves, long outdoor evenings and the assumption of a sunny weekend. New gifts lie in store now, as we take stock of what to carry on into winter and what to pare away. We think toward holidays, having enough warm clothing, and playing in the snow. But our roots are important, too--the season's cycles are a way of recognizing that we have our own, although usually not so clearly defined. We are growing things, and our different seasons--of success, drudgery, elation, challenge, barely making it, and contentment--each serve their purpose toward our development, if we choose, in the greater, grander picture of our individual journeys.
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