November Woods

Every November, beginning in 1979, this poem floats back into my mind, bringing with it a brief but poignant sharpness of long past grief and regret.  My husband and I were in Botswana for a three year term with Mennonite Central Committee, and my mother was newly widowed a few months before we left, back in Virginia. I left for Botswana confused and steeped in guilt, caught between a husband who wanted to go and a mother, alone, who desperately wished we would stay.

From a world away, I put together a scrapbook, of sorts, filled with poems and pictures I cut from South African magazines and mailed it to her in time for the first anniversary of my father's death. Even to me at the time, it seemed a pitiful offering, but it was the best I could do, so far removed from her day to day struggles.  This poem isn't a great one, not of literary excellence or note, but it does convey the essence of November and the memories I carried of the season, in a land where there was no time of year that remotely resembled autumn in the east.

November Woods

Lovely are the silent woods, on grey November days.

When the leaves fall red and gold, upon the quiet ways.

From massive beech, majestic oak and birches white and slim,

Like the pillared aisles of a cathedral, vast and dim.

Drifting mist, like smoking incense, hangs upon the air.

Along the paths where birds once sang, the trees stand stripped and bare.

Making Gothic arches with their branches interlaced,

And window-framing vistas, richly wrought and finely traced.

It is good to be in such a place, on such a day.

Problems vanish from the mind and sorrow steals away.

In the woods of grey November, silent and austere, 

Nature gives her benediction to the passing year.

                                                      Patience Strong

Autumn Brilliance

The exuberance of autumn is already winding down and we are moving into a more subdued season. But even as we watch the last of the leaves swirl down and pull our sweaters more tightly around us against the November chill, this is a good time to think about next year's autumn landscape and what it might offer to us and to migrating birds and butterflies. What follows is a piece I wrote a few weeks ago for a native plant landscaping newsletter. Just as the bulb catalogs arrive in early spring so that we may gaze upon our landscapes and muse, "what if?" now is the time to consider what we might want to add to our autumn landscapes.

If you were asked what you treasure most about autumn, 

what would you answer? Would it be the magnificent color of the mid-Atlantic landscape, or the cool crisp days that call you to spend as much time as possible outdoors?  How about the sights and sounds of migrating warblers, thrushes and sparrows, foraging in the underbrush or perhaps the dwindling song of the season’s crickets and katydids on warm sunny days or chilly evenings?

Each year, as fall approaches I am restless to become a part 

of its story, to be a participant in its grandeur, and to add 

whatever I am able to the glory and abundance of the season. PIanting for autumn has become an integral component of my landscape planning, and as I work to meet the needs of birds and insects, I also revel in the seemingly endless palette of color possibilities. Surrounded by hues of reds, yellows, purples and oranges, I delight in the presence of grey catbirds, bluebirds and cedar waxwings picking berries from the Virginia Creeper and native viburnums that grow in the hedgerow, and thrushes, towhees and brown creepers busily scratching though the leaf litter below. Every autumn the yard is filled with migrating ruby-throated hummingbirds stopping by to nectar at the garden phlox, white turtlehead, obedient plant and jewelweed on their way south. Sparrows, indigo buntings, goldfinches, and chickadees perch unsteadily on seed heads of goldenrods, asters, black-eyed Susans, green-headed coneflowers and native grasses swaying in the breezes and eating their fill.

Planting for beauty and wildlife’s needs in autumn can be one

of the most rewarding aspects of the season. This autumn, take a look around your landscape and notice where you would like to have more color. Our native shrubs and trees take on tones of reds, purples, oranges and yellows and many have colorful berries that will be appreciated by birds needing nourishment as they migrate or prepare for winter. Herbaceous plants for shade that flower well into fall include: zig-zag goldenrod, blue stem goldenrod, white wood aster and blue wood aster. Herbaceous fall flowering plants for sun include: garden phlox, white and pink turtlehead, smooth aster, New York aster, and several beautiful goldenrod species. Of particular note for late fall color in sunny spots is the duo of the bright yellow late black-eyed Susan and the lovely fragrant, light purple aromatic aster .

What better way to enjoy the glorious season of autumn than being outdoors in your own yard, surrounded by birds and bees and butterflies, crickets and katydids, a participant in the natural world and immersed in the beauty and vibrancy of the season. 

Sowing Hope

Anne Lamott wrote, "I heard a preacher say recently that hope is a revolutionary patience; let me add that so is being a writer." I thought of this line today, as I was preparing a garden bed for a very late planting of winter salad mix, and will add, "so is being a gardener." Even in southern MD, November 5th is too late for planting anything but garlic... but, why not? What do I have to lose but a few seeds? And, perhaps I will gain fresh greens at least through early winter, if the row cover provides enough protection through the coming freezes.

The author of the book of Hebrews wrote, "Faith is being sure of what we hope for and certain of what we do not see." Faith is that revolutionary patience that believes that God is at work, even when we can't fathom what he is up to and what he is working to accomplish in us. Determining to trust is not all that removed from planting. Both require determination and work, both must wait for evidence that we have not hoped in vain, both need us to weed away hindrances to growth and both, when we are patient, bring about a bountiful harvest. 

I spend much of my gardening days now winding down the season, removing frost-killed plants, adding compost and mulching the empty beds.  At this time of year, it requires a good measure of faith to picture the garden in spring, filled with tender seedlings holding the promise of another year. The garden and I both are tired, ready for a slower pace and some well earned rest, but we are not finished yet. Next year's bounty depends on my labor now and the soil organisms making use of what I feed them. Soon enough the ground will freeze and rest will come and there will be energy again to look towards spring.

An old friend wrote me yesterday that the Pennsylvania land conservancy for which I still do occasional landscape consulting is looking for someone local to take over the service. And I completely fell apart at reading her words…emotions of grief and fear of loss of meaning suddenly gripping my heart.  Even though I knew that this prospect is what is best for the conservancy, I felt like it wasn't best for me at all.  I feared losing the connection and what has seemed like a thin lifeline to central PA.

But maybe that is exactly God’s intent…what do I know?  After thinking more clearly last night, I have some different feelings…maybe even feelings of relief and of adventure.  I’ve been thinking, now and then, of adventure lately…that maybe all my adventures of this life are not yet over and that more await.  Holding on to what is safe is not the way to find them, but letting go and seeing where life and God take me seems the more positive approach.  Holding on to the conservancy and my involvement, hoping that nothing changes until I get back again someday, picking up where I left off, now feels like a narrow and restricting kind of mindset.

 Yes, there is fear in letting go, isn’t there? I like knowing what I can count on and where I can be of use and how.  But what if something wonderful awaits, instead? I am slowly, slowly being dragged towards the possibility that  more is waiting for me than I realize and to letting go of my hold on what use to be. Still, I want to have a plan for the future, a goal to work towards, and right now I don’t. It hasn't shown itself, as of yet, just as the seeds I planted yesterday are not yet visible.

So, if God and life are moving me away from my old familiar role, then that is the fork I will follow and believe that for the conservancy and for me, it is the right path. I’ll continue walking down the one set in front of me, whether I know where it is taking me or not…In the words of the Wailin' Jennys, “It’s a long and rugged road, and we don’t know where it’s headed, but we know it’s going to get us where we’re going. And when we find what we’re looking for we’ll drop these bags and search no more, cuz its going to feel like heaven when we’re home.”

Holding On and Letting Go

I've been wrestling with a perennial dilemma, one that occurs at this time of year, every year. Fall is a time of pervasive restlessness, contrasted with a time of nestling into where I am...of wanting to fly off with the waterfowl on adventures to new places but,at the same time, wanting to pour my energy into the home place, planting new plants in support of next year's birds and pollinators. I am not the first to say, but do agree, that autumn is a bittersweet, melancholy kind of time, a savory, glorious bursting of brief unparalleled beauty preceding the starkness and silence of winter. It is a time of letting go, and I intentionally hold on to the promise that autumn's developing tree buds will be next years leaves and flowers.

This year, I am wrestling more deeply than usual.  We left my much-loved old home in PA and moved to southern MD three and a half years ago and have lived on the farm where I work, for two.  The farm is a beautiful old property, set high on a hill overlooking the Potomac River, a patchwork of fields, woodlands and marshes. Today the woodlands are ablaze with color, and the marshes are filling with ducks and migrating sparrows who will stay through the winter. Today I feel at home here....and thus my deeper wrestling.

It is dangerous to fall in love with a place you do not own and know that some day you will be leaving.  Granted, the argument can be made that it is also dangerous to fall in love with a place you do own, because you have no assurance about how long you will be able to stay. I know that I won't be working and growing old on this lovely old comfortable farm, however, and, even amid the joy and gratitude of living here, I feel the early stirrings of grief for when we will have to leave. All the more so in autumn.


In Pennsylvania I had an acquaintance who knew as much about native plants and ecosystems as anyone I have ever known. He was an electrician and lived in a city apartment, yet started thousands of plants for restoration projects under lights in his living room.  I once asked whether he had a garden and he simply answered, "The world is my garden." I marveled at his detachment from and his investment in so many places to which he had contributed his love for the land.  He has become something of a model for when I feel the attachment to one place too keenly and fear having that attachment broken...but I am not there yet, and secretly doubt  that I ever will be.

The tensions of holding on and letting go characterize love, no matter who or what our hearts embrace and the more deeply we love, the more deeply we grieve when faced with loss.  Autumn is a time for remembering the graces and gifts I have been given through the year, for recognizing the abundance the earth supplies and even for gratitude that, as the trees prepare to sleep, I are blessed with the visual feast all around me, brief though it may be. And so I accept that the beauty of autumn, in my heart anyway, is tinged with the coming sadness for when it will be over, and that I will also find beauty in the bare sculpture of the trees and the crispness of snow as winter approaches. I am reminded that my life is a continual, loving experience of holding on and letting go and that it always will be. And I determine, once again, to try my best to live with gratitude, in the moment.

Challenges to Mindfullness

I used to assume the qualities of quiet reflection and watchful mindfulness went hand in hand but, at times they seemed to be at odds. Sometimes, in fact, being mindful is just plain hard...Like this morning as I walked along the Potomac, thinking deeply about the past, the future and the present, and almost missing the strident calling of what turned out to be two flittering, agitated golden-crowned kinglets. Padding along the dirt road,my thoughts were turned inward, focused on some needed internal discussions and prayer time, and at the same time, reaching for the solace of the autumn glory of the woodlands that surrounded me.


Once the high-pitched voices overhead finally caught my attention, my focus shifted altogether to alertly waiting and watching, and the only matter on my mind was to identify the singers. Familiar as I am with golden-crowneds, what I was hearing did not register and so, after a short time of intense concentration, I was rewarded with the sight of two irritated kinglets obviously disgruntled with each other. I wondered from whence they had come and to where they were bound on their migration, and I wondered what was troubling them so on such a bountiful morning.

The most unexpected benefit of birding is that it calls for and returns me to mindfulness. When I pull the binoculars to my eyes, all other thoughts fade into the background and I am left fully with and in the moment. Sometimes I think that the more unsettled I am, the more refreshing are these short breaks in my ponderings. The natural world calls to me and as I answer, God speaks to and comforts me through what He has created. For a time, t

he moment is enough.

Abundance

She stood calmly as I milked, and we shared the early morning quiet of the milking barn in companionable silence. Soon others would arrive on the farm, but for those precious moments it was still just she and I, welcoming the day together, each in our own fashion.  She gave two gallons, filling the bucket with a rich, warm stream topped with a foamy layer of milk and air and the word that came to mind was, "abundance."

They hopped among fading flowers, moving up stems and over ground in their search for insects, seldom resting in one place long enough for me to get a good look at them. They had come from who knows where, winging their way southward to a warmer land with a more friendly winter, and had stopped in my yard to refuel. My native gardens are no longer flowering, for the most part, but the dried stalks still bear volumes of seed and host the tiny insects that these Common Yellowthroats were after. They stayed several hours, apparently finding food enough to make their stop worthwhile, and the word that came to mind was, "abundance."

In the Children's Garden, they fly purposely from flower to flower, drawing as much nectar as they can before the soon-to-be-coming freeze. Monarchs, Black-swallowtails, Painted Ladies, Cloudless Sulfurs, and Buckeyes feed on zinnia, Mexican sunflower, cosmos, tall ageratum, tropical milkweed and aromatic asters swaying in the breeze. I planted the flowers for just such moments, moments when butterflies need sustenance and a chance to rest from their constant foraging elsewhere on the farm. In these last warm days of autumn, I look around at the myriad colors of flowers and busyness of butterflies and the word that comes to mind, once again, is, "abundance."

The vines were long... ten feet long, some of them, and it was time to cut them and clear them away from the sweet potatoes that will be harvested tomorrow. In some parts of the world, sweet potatoes are grown for the vines rather than for the roots and ensure an almost endless supply of nutritious greens in the diet. Here, on the farm, I harvest the roots for people and the greens for the barnyard animals who seem to appreciate them as a great delicacy. I looked at the mounded pile of greens and imagined our cow and sheep and goats eagerly partaking and the word that came to mind was, "abundance."

 We, unfortunately, often think of the word "abundance" in terms of what we may purchase with our money. The dictionary defines it as, "overflowing", "teeming", "richly supplied". Many times, it has nothing to do with money, ours or anyone else's. We are all richly blessed by the abundance of the land that provides for us and for the creatures with whom we share our world. We are blessed by moments of abundance that turn our eyes away from our worries and, if even for a moment, to wonder. The more we determine to look for abundance all around us, the more we see, and in the seeing, the richer we become.

Tiny Blessing: Baby-led Environmental Education on a Suburban Sidewalk

It all began with this stick, seen from an adult's perspective, and that of an 11 month old. Last week I visited with my grandson and, while waiting for his next treatment, we went outside to explore the world for a little while. He is now walking with the help of a larger person's fingers and, as a result, is able to bend forward and examine the ground as he moves along. 

As we maneuvered down the short sidewalk in front of his house, this tiny piece of wood caught his eye. He briefly pondered it from above and after some thought, sat down on the ground to more fully take it in. He picked it up and felt its texture, turning it over and over in his little hands. He dropped it and watched it bounce, his brow furrowed in concentration. He tossed it and watched how far it would travel and then reached for it and began his hands-on observations all over again. 

When satisfied that he had learned what he wanted to know about the stick, we took a few steps more before coming to a partially dried mulberry leaf laying on the sidewalk. He took notice and stepped on it. Hearing its crunch, he paused and thoughtfully stepped on it again, presumably to discover if it would, indeed, crunch a second time. When it did, he promptly sat down for further exploration. He held the leaf and peered at it, turning it over in his hands before beginning its dismemberment. He tore it into pieces and, after looking each piece over carefully and manipulating it with all 10 fingers, he proceed to shred each of them into smaller and smaller bits. 

Once again, his examination complete, he was ready to move on, perhaps by now intentionally on the alert for the next new thing. We did not have long to walk before he spotted it, and down he went again beside a dried Crimon King Norway maple leaf, satisfyingly crunchy and close at hand. After thoroughly investigating its makeup, he noticed another couple of small pieces of wood, picked them up and concentrated on dropping and watching them land, over and over and over. I could almost picture a tiny clipboard inside his head, as he recorded velocity, travel time and point of landing and doing whatever calculations might be called for in such an experiment.

Though we were outside for 20 minutes or more, I refrained from talking as much as possible. I wanted this time to be his time,time for him to get to know his sidewalk and whatever he found there on his own terms. I was confident that his curiosity would be motivation enough to move him towards exploration and intrigue, but even I was surprised by the intensity of his deliberations. Too often we bombard children with facts and call it environmental education, thinking that the more we teach them, the more they will know. But real knowledge and a thirst for learning grows from familiarity and love of subject and those can only be gained through experience. Sitting on a sidewalk, surrounded by sticks, leaves, dirt and such, is an ideal way to begin a life long relationship with the earth and all it contains.  Who knows what we will discover on our next outing?

Much Needed Respite

Pollinators, pollinators everywhere in the yard! Bees of all shapes and sizes, butterflies and hummingbirds...Everywhere I look there is buzzing, humming and the fluttering of wings...swamp milkweed, green-headed coneflower, ironweed, joe-pye weed, cardinal flower, garden phlox all playing host to our tiny native wildlife...I feel like a shepherdess winding through the plantings, keeping watch over her flock, ensuring that what they need for life and health is provided.

I have spent much of my day outside, longing for peace and respite from the upheaval and concern of these tumultuous times.  Sometimes I go into the garden as a naturalist, to watch and observe the biological interactions. Sometimes I go for the joy of myriad colors, fragrances and bounty of life. But sometimes I wander into the garden because I am troubled, and it becomes a place of sanctuary, a place of refuge for me, as much as for wildlife.

Stepping into my yard, where the wild comes to live alongside me, does not remove the fears or losses of my life, but it does provide a space large enough to hold the accompanying emotions and ensures comfort as no other place can. The life found there pries my eyes off myself and points them to something greater than my worries. I am reminded that there are seasons and cycles to life and that calm really does return after storms. I am reminded that life goes on. The garden that was created to be a home for wildlife has become home to me and, surrounded by its abundance of life, I am blessed.

                              

Obscure Blessing

Sometimes blessing comes in circumstance we would have never chosen for ourselves or for others.  Last week, my 10 month old grandson was diagnosed with cystic fibrosis and he and his parents have spent the last two weeks in the Children's National Medical Center in DC. His tiny little body had wasted away to 12 pounds and he was admitted for malnutrition, none of us knowing why. After a few days of testing, the specter of CF was raised, his mom's family having a distinct history of the disease, and several days of waiting for a diagnosis began. When the CF diagnosis came, our worlds were shaken, filled with fear and uncertainty, and at the same time, we determined to trust God's hand in whatever the future brings.

 Trust is difficult when I am afraid. When the days ahead loom uncertain and are potentially filled with suffering, I have to make a definitive choice between becoming incapacitated by that fear, or turning my face to God and holding fast to His promises of nearness.  The seesaw of emotions teeters between debilitating, nauseous anxiety on the one hand, and deliberate confidence, on the other.  Even if trust and confidence win the day, or more accurately, the moment, the turmoil takes its toll, nonetheless.

What I have rediscovered in these last two weeks, however, is my gift for loving and caring, for nurturing those who need support in trying times. St Teresa of Avila wrote some lines centuries ago that John Michael Talbot set to music and the words have been my prayer for many years. "Christ has no body, now, but yours. No hands, no feet on earth but yours. Yours are the eyes with which He looks, compassion on this world. Christ has no body here on earth, but yours."  

The obvious blessing of these past days is that my grandson has responded to treatment, is gaining weight, is happily becoming his old self again, and has returned home.  The more obscure blessing is that in the suffering and grief that has been part of our lives lately, God has been at hand, "saving, helping, keeping, loving," in the words of the old hymn.  And He has reminded me of my most important contribution to the world, to be His hands and eyes in this broken, hurting world, and, in so doing, I discover again just who I am.

This Fallen World

This evening I've been mulling over events of the last few days, and find my attitude softening, ever so slightly. I'm reminded, as if I need reminding, that life on earth is never going to be as God had originally intended for any of us, and that sometimes we are besieged by an ugliness over which we we have no control.

Yesterday was the first time in my life I have ever reported anyone for sexual harassment.  Not someone I worked with or knew, but someone here at the farm on a construction crew. Perhaps there are women who would not have found his behavior offensive, but I was shaken and fearful,even,of having to be around him for the duration of their work.  I talked with the HR woman for our organization and was blessed by her compassion and determination that it would not happen again, and sure enough, she made good on her promise.  But I keep wishing that I could have been more...more...I don't know exactly.  More effective, maybe. Not just for myself but for other women this man must surely make uncomfortable, and even for the man, himself. I wasn't sure whether he spoke English , and so did not attempt the conversation that was playing in my mind, but I wish I had felt that I could have. I wanted to ask him whether he had a daughter and if so, did he want her to someday feel as I did, to be treated as though she were nothing more than a thing to be toyed with for some perverted man's amusement.  What would he have said, I wonder. And I wonder whether that might have been the more redemptive approach, holding some possibility of change.  

There is constant construction going on at the farm right now, land being torn up, trees being torn down, continual noise and, what seems to me, carnage. Those who initiated and have made the decision that this project will go forward do not spend time on the land, be it this or any other. They work in offices and talk about "green living" and how this current effort will be a grand example of the same. And perhaps it will be, someday, when all the equipment is gone and top soil has been spread and new plants are growing where the old ones were ripped from the earth. Right now,all I see is destruction and sadness and some days I feel as though I hear the earth's cries.

Being hard on the man who frightened me and those who have decided to injure this land comes easily to me, and yet, if I am honest, I know that such is not the right response. I was reading of St Francis this evening, who showed mercy to those who were in the wrong, just as he did those who were in the right. Not condoning their behavior, but extending grace, that they might turn to God's also.  And so I am thinking about both as I retire for the night...thinking about those who cause pain and about the possibilities for redemption.  Both are pieces of living in this fallen world, as one who loves Jesus. I have more growing to do and hope that I can learn to hold the sometimes ugliness of this world and the beauty of forgiveness and redemption in tandem. Jesus did, and Francis did, and perhaps, someday, so can I.

Mindfulness

I've been reading and thinking lately about living life mindfully and this evening I decided to look up the word and discern whether I was understanding its meaning correctly. The words "attentive" and "aware" were most often used as definitions, but usually there was the implied "to" or "of" attached. I didn't find the word used in the context of defining one's life, but maybe those "to's" and "of's" really are the key, after all.

Early this morning, as I have been doing lately, I took a walk down to the river.  The farm and river are quiet then and there is ample opportunity for observation and for thinking. It is a good time to be mindful of what is happening around me - of the tide, of the summer singing insects, and of the voices of which birds are or are not present. It is a time to be mindful of the bounty of late summer and to be thankful for the land that feeds all living things right now.

However, even as I thought I was being aware, I learned a new lesson about mindfulness.  Sitting on a favorite log and looking up river, I saw a few Forster's Terns gracefully whirling and plunging  into the water, as they fished.  From up river, the fog began to roll in and the landscape before me grew increasingly fuzzy. While I could still see in the distance, I thought to look through my binoculars and there, beyond what I could see with my naked eyes, were dozens of terns flying to and fro.

How does this pertain to mindfulness? If being mindful means paying attention to what is present, it also mean paying attention to that which is present, but not always visible. I am learning that living life mindfully means being aware of God's presence in any and every situation I find myself.  It means being attentive to His voice and the leading of His Spirit as I go about the seemingly mundane affairs of day to day life. I am very sure that I will have much more to learn as I try to live a less distracted and more intentional life, but I am thankful for the gift of these insights this morning, and for the terns.

All Good Gifts

I am the gardener for a large garden, created for the benefit of school students who come on class trips to the farm where I work and live. The farm is a patchwork of woodlands, wetlands and open fields and sits along the banks of the Potomac River. As a result, I am richly blessed with the daily sightings bald eagles, ospreys, red shouldered hawks and the many non-raptors who make this place their home. And I am filled with gratitude for the land's bounty as I labor in the garden beds, harvesting for my husband and myself, and for others, while at the same time planting to support the many pollinators who live in and bless the garden with their presence. 

In the days to come I will be writing about my journeying towards a mindful life, marked by love for God and for a simplicity that allows me to hear His voice.  For this opening post, however, I'll just set down this song from the old movie Godspell that has been circling through my mind as I worked and walked today.  The words seem a fitting beginning for a series of writings about a life of many earthy blessings.

All Good Gifts

We plow the fields and scatter the good seed on the land.

But it is fed and watered by God's almighty hand.

He sends us snow in winter, the warmth to swell the grain.

The breezes and the sunshine, and soft refreshing rains.

We thank Thee, then, O Father, for all things bright and good.

The seed time and the harvest, our life, our health, our food.

No gifts have we to offer for all Thy love imparts,

But that which Thou desirest, our humble, thankful hearts.

All good gifts around us,

Are sent from Heaven above.

Then, thank the Lord, thank the Lord,

For all His love.