Yesterday’s taste of snow is nowhere in sight. Only its cold remains, and its clouds, riding the wind. At the field’s edge a row of weathered goldenrod bobs like the old men who gather for coffee and gossip at the town’s cafe at seven o’clock every morning.
Did you hear about Elmer and the row he got into? You can’t really blame him, though. That’s right. I would have done the same thing myself–or worse!
They tell their rambling stories and haul out old jokes, and laughter dances with their clanking spoons, and then, for a moment they grow still, memories floating behind their lowered eyes, They lick sticky glaze from their fingers and drips of coffee from the sides of their cups. Then one of them says the keyword from the joke that had them laughing before, and they start all over again, nodding and remembering the days when they were still golden, and content in the gold of the now,
Despite the sliver of cowardice and dread that pokes up from my memory of snow’s dangers and cold, the child in me wins out. “Look!” she shouts, all excited and glad, “It’s snowing!” She tells me what to do.
You zip up your jacket and tie the hood, and pull on your boots and your mittens. See? Then you just dash out the door. You hold up your arms, throw back your head, stick out your tongue and taste the cold. Then you twirl and twirl and dance. You just twirl and twirl and dance.
I suppose it was because the week was warm and we were all pretending summer was still here. Whatever it was, the wetlands shocked me. Reeds that were green mere days ago were as white as the bare limbs of the sycamores. The pond was all but gone, revealing the seaweed that soon would turn cranberry red, just in time for the coming holidays. The water fowl and blackbirds were gone now, and the crickets and frogs. But above the rise behind the pond, a freight train rumbled past, providing sound to break the silence.
The seasons pass so swiftly. Just yesterday you were still here, smiling into my eyes, saying I love you as you said goodbye. And now, you, too, are gone. At least from my sight. In my heart, you are here, every bit as tangible as summer’s song, and like summer, forever warm and welcome, and shining with light.
Thick, low clouds covered the sky as I drove about on some errands. Now and then, tiny snowflakes darted through the air, melting as quickly as they had appeared. Overnight, the world had turned cold and gray. Definitely. I murmured, it’s November. But then, as I turned into the plaza, a splash of color caught my eye. Roses! I could hardly believe it. I parked and walked over to them, touching one finger to a delicate petal and bending to inhale the scent. For a moment, all the darkness disappeared, and I was warmed as if by a lover’s kiss. Sometimes the world says Yes.
I watched the raindrops slide down the window, tiny reflections of the world upside down in each of them. They seemed a perfect analogy for current events, both globally and in my personal life. Beyond them, a blanket of burnt sienna oak leaves, wet with rain, lent a dash of welcome color to the dreary scene.
Fallen leaves played a big part in my life this past week. I shuffled through deep heaps of them at the park, thoughts of friends drifting through my mind. I dug them from the gutters on my house and swept a couple stray ones from my entry floor. I laughed at two fat squirrels digging through them for acorns and heard them rustle as two deer, a buck and a doe, lunged up the south hill as I opened my back door.
The week had been a warm one, probably the last, and I took advantage of it. I set up the saw buck my friend Bob made for me a couple years ago, got out my chain saw, and cut up the fallen tree limbs and branches I’d dragged down the hill the week before. I had about a quarter cord of firewood when I finished, all neatly stacked and covered. I laughed as I thought about what fun that was, and about how glad and grateful I was that I could tackle such things at my age. It’s a good thing, I believe, to celebrate yourself every now and then.
The tapping of the raindrops on my window pane lured me back to them and to the dull, gray light outside, and I found myself recalling other, sadder events that had colored my recent days. A beloved Uncle had passed away, and a remarkable woman who had been my best friend all through high school. Then I learned of the death of the daughter of an acquaintance I’ve known for some time. She was in a class with my son once. And the anniversary of my son’s death is tomorrow. Somewhere in between came the birthday of a cherished friend who died last year and I missed making her favorite coconut cake for her, a long-standing tradition.
I was glad for the rain, for the softness it provided, for the way it told me that sometimes the world seems upside down and all you can do is watch the tears slide down and notice the colors beyond them. In the end, it all balances out. As one of my friends often says, “Life goes on.” Sometimes it rains. And sometime there are golden days that make all the rest of them worth it.
Wishing you a few of the golden ones in the week ahead.
One time, about half a century ago, my best friend read me a poem that her secret lover, a strong, sensitive man, had penned for her. They had walked together, she said, in the autumn woods earlier in the day. I remember being astonished at the poignant beauty of the words. The closing line, “Aren’t oak leaves beautiful?” stuck with me long after I’d forgotten the rest, except for a mention of the Taj Mahal at its beginning. Years later, I asked my friend if she, by any chance, still had a copy of the piece. She didn’t. But it doesn’t matter. The feel of it returns to me every year when oak leaves cover the ground.
Yesterday I thought of my friend with affection as I walked through heaps of newly fallen leaves, and I smiled at one red oak leaf, the sun shining through it as if it were a stained glass window. She was like that, too, glowing, letting the light pour through her deep rich colors. She passed away, I learned when I returned from my walk. So tonight I wrote this poem for her. I’ll think of you often, my friend, especially in autumn, when the beautiful oak leaves fall.
If you were a shaman, the old crow told me, you would know what this calligraphy means the moment that you set eyes on it.
My own interpretation, he went on, is that the ancient legend is true that says elves collect materials this time of year for decorating the Festival drums. You might have heard that story before.
If you see a scattering of pine needles on the sawn trunk of a tree, noting the colors and textures, and think of all the stories this one small patch of ground might hold, you are gifted and lucky.
Late in the afternoon, I walked by the creek, its waters clogged by fallen leaves. I made cheesy beans for supper and ate a bowl with a slice of freshly baked Italian bread. I’m in my bedroom studio now and just turned on the the heater. The sun’s gone and the air has taken on a chill.
Tomorrow will bring rain and trail cold behind it that will last for days. It’s good weather for holing up, pulling on a fleece sweater and warm socks, listening to podcasts, maybe watching a tear well up over the mess of it all, hugging my pillows, snuggling with the gaudy afghan that Evelyn crocheted.
Barely noticeable lyrics sing from behind a velvet curtain on the back stage of my mind: “Just keep going; keep on going. Jesus closer than my breath. Just keep going. Keep on going.”
Sometimes that’s the best you can do. And that’s okay.
I don’t know her name or species. She doesn’t know mine either. Neither of us cares. She just stands there—sun, rain sleet, snow—at the edge of the trail that stage coaches traveled, all the way, they tell me, from New York to Chicago nearly two hundred years ago. She, whom I address as “Mother Maple,” has been there, on the east edge of the south hill where she can catch the sunrise, a long time, too. I have known her for over three decades now, and count it as a privilege held in high regard. I remember an autumn when hundreds of migrating starlings perched for a while in her boughs and in the boughs of all her neighbors, singing until you thought the earth itself would rise up at the sound. Today, her limbs are nearly bare. Only slim garlands of her last red leaves remain and a lone leaf here and there. I nod to her, an appreciative salute, as I turn toward my door, silently wishing her sweet dreams, and promising to check in with her from time to time, no matter what winter brings.
By the end of the week, cold will set in. These are the last warm days and much remains to be done. Nevertheless, I can’t resist the call of the woods. I haven’t been to the pine grove in weeks, and although the maples have shed their leaves, the oaks remain. I can’t resist. I don’t even try. Once I am there, my boots brushing through heaps of leaves, I find myself back in childhood days, when all along the bay, the men would make great piles of fallen leaves on the sand at the waters edge. And we children would dive atop them shrieking, expecting them to be soft as pillows, but of course they never were. And when the men had finished their raking, they set fire to hills of leaves, and the smoke from the fires would billow and rise, riding the south wind out to where the water met the sky. At my feet, leathery oak leaves cover the ground, tucking themselves around a fallen log, a young pine adorned with fallen needles. I notice I am wearing a soft smile, despite that slight air of sadness that autumn often brings. I remember the fragrance of burning leaves and inhale the scent of these woods. I listen to the whispers of the leaves beneath my feet, a once-a-year song. And in my heart, there is peace.
