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.
The days of light give way now to the lengthening nights. At noon the warmth of the sun yields to gusts of cold wind. My eyes travel up the trunks of two trees, one bright, one lost in shadow. Between them, the red leaves of a distant oak dance in the autumn-blue sky. My heart drinks in all of it, playing its beat-pause, beat-pause rhythm. As I turn to walk down the path that will climb up the next hill, my breath flows in, then out. It’s all one tender song—the up and down, the in and out, the shadow and the light, each in perfect balance with the other. At dusk, I watch a nearly full moon rise in a clear dark sky as a lone cricket’s song rides the evening’s silence.
A light rain, almost mist-like, splattered the vacant side road that runs from the highway into town, subduing what remained of autumn’s colors. The day was warm for November and mild, and I breathed its fragrant air through the window I had rolled down a bit despite the rain. Daydreams floated past as I drove, suddenly interrupted by a quick movement in the fallen leaves that lined the road. Pheasants! I hadn’t seen one in years. Ring-necks! The sight of their plumage sent me back to the time when I was four and my dad, a hunter, carefully unrolled layers of newspaper, revealing his bounty before my eyes right there on the kitchen’s linoleum floor. The iridescence of their colors stunned me and mixed with the scent of wet feathers and blood. My dad let me touch me them. Such magnificent birds! Today, two pheasants touched me.
Yesterday, at least three people told me that after rolling my clock back an hour before I went to bed I’d get an extra hour of sleep this morning . But naturally, I didn’t. And I bet you probably didn’t either. The body’s internal time-keeper doesn’t give a fig what our clocks say.
Nevertheless, I confess that I like it when people say we’ll get that bonus sleep. It’s such a hopeful way to look at change, forecasting the possible benefits.
Changes, after all, even changes for the better, are disorienting to us all. They bring the discomfort of having to adapt, to let go of a piece of our familiar world in exchange for an altered one. When they’re not for the better, they can drag clouds of insecurity and doubt across our internal landscapes.
But happy or not, change is one of life’s certainties. I keep a small rock engraved with the word “change” on my kitchen window sill to remind me of that. Not only does it advise me that the present is a flow-state, but it helps me keep my balance in the face of life’s unexpected turns.
It reminds me that sometimes change is rocky; life’s like that. It’s like a brook that meanders for a time, then tumbles down a hill into a whole different terrain. “Be like the water,” my rock tells me, “that achieves new smoothness as it goes on.”
I think about that picture. It’s not an instant smooth. Even water needs some time to adapt. But a new smoothness will come–and here’s the key–“as it goes on.” How long it takes depends on the size of the tumble and the shape of the new terrain. Sometimes we go through tumble after tumble. Yet the terrain always has its bends, and some of them open to a world of surprising light and relief. Remember that and just keep going forward. You never know what the next turning will bring.
And remember to look for opportunity as you go, too. Change unfailingly has a few of those tucked away. It offers new perspectives, but it’s up to you to spot them and then to paddle your way over to their side of the shore. They’re usually bright little bubbles with a glow of hope to them. And hope is a wonderful thing. It propels you in good directions. It lightens your spirit and mind. So keep your eye out for possibilities.
It’s like the writer and philosopher Alan Watts said: “The only way to make sense out of change is to plunge into it, move with it, and join the dance.” I heartily agree.
You never know in the morning what a day will hold. Surprises almost always lurk in the folds of its hours, some welcome, some not. But both are gifts to you, even those that come disguised as setbacks or misfortune. One rewards; the other teaches. Take this flower, a scarlet nasturtium, that yesterday, before it bloomed, I had almost covered with mulch for the winter, but didn’t. Beneath its fat, green, lily-pad leaves I saw its tiny bud, full of life and hope. This morning it beamed its thanks and whispered, “Never, ever give up.”
Suddenly, the bodies of the trees are bare again, their wondrous limbs etching poems against the sky. I stop and stare as if I’d never seen them before, awestruck once more by the realization that these towering beings are as alive as I am, cycling through the same seasons, knowing the same ebb and flow of darkness and light, of activity and rest. I reach out to touch the smooth cool bark of a sycamore, and although its consciousness is far beyond my knowing, I feel a connection and something deep within me breathes, “Alive. Yes, alive.”
Here and there, in protected places, handfuls of golden leaves still wave from the tops of the maples. But for the most part, the branches are bare, ready for their winter naps. Except, of course, for the oaks, the magnificent ones, who only now put on their amber autumn color. Wearing their glowing crowns they reign now, trumpeting the trees’ last song, proclaiming the judgment: Well and beautifully done.
