What If We Have It Wrong About Aging?

As leaves crimson
does the chokeberry long
for May
when
covered with snowy blossoms
she beckons
to wild bees?

Beauty's blaze
faded
does she rue
her bare branches
where cardinals
perch
to devour 
bitter berries?

Ripening over
the course 
of a lifetime
we
offer our
fruit 
to the world.

If You Are Quiet

 It is time for this piece again...now, more than ever.

If you are quiet
you can hear the leaves fall,
following their twirling, 
swirling dance
with your ears
until they come to rest
softly 
at your feet.

Amid the gales
that loosen their grip,
even amidst the tumult
that rages in your mind,
if you stop,
if you will yourself to listen,
you will hear their 
floating gently-to-earth whispers
as they rustle
through their companions
on the once in a lifetime
descent. 

Background noise
fills my mind,
outer noise of destruction,
of greed,
of power wielded wrongly, 
inner voices of fear,
of sorrow,
of powerlessness,
noise that will drown me
if I let it
and render me deaf, 
even to the Good.

Yet in stillness
I may notice
that which lies beyond
myself
and all my thoughts.
Gazing at the trees of autumn,
swaying
in the winds
that strip their leaves,
Grace breaks through.

If you are quiet,
you can hear the leaves fall.
Listen...

Companioning

 When the day dawns dreary
and your strength falters,
may you be opened to the life around you,
the bees' gentle buzzing
and the hummingbird's zest.

When the night has been too long,
filled with sorrow or fear,
may the morning dew greet you
and the rising mists 
lift your spirit.

When your moments are lonely
and far too quiet,
may you be comforted by the insects' song
and the twittering of young birds, learning
their own voice.

When your eyes are weary from too much work
or too many tears,
may autumn's hues soothe you,
bronze mums on the doorstep,
September's first crimson leaves.

When all is not as you had dreamed
nor hoped,
may the companions outside your door
carry you tenderly as you find
your way.

Praying with Binoculars in the Berkshires in October

 

And with a cup of tea
on the porch off the old classroom.
Praying with the nuthatches and chickadees
foraging at the feeder and in the goldenrod out back,
and with the song sparrows and chipmunks
rustling through last years' leaves.

Praying with the horses on the hillside
and their foggy breath
as the sun rises over the mountain,
light slanting through the black cherry
and the birches.

Praying with the dew glistening in the hayfield
and the spider's silk slung between ash branches,
with yellowing ferns
and lingering asters 
and sugar maple leaves dropping
one by one.

The stone schoolhouse, 
filled with two centuries of memories,
feels too crowded for my silent prayer.
Outdoors I sit,
accompanied by descendents 
of the long ago wild ones,
in praise and thanksgiving
for this morning,
for this land,
and for the One who has been always here.

Sabbath Rain

 Not everyone reading this will feel the same way about the autumn's rain, I realize. But where I live, it was a hot dry summer and the recent rain was a gift.

Interrupting the interminable drought,
drops are finally falling
on parched pastures 
and withered gardens.
We have been waiting,
the drooping woodlands
and tattered roadside sumacs,
the bedraggled spicebushes
and I.

The days of lugging heavy hoses,
and pouring dirtied goat and chicken water
on newly planted sassafras trees
compulsively checking the weather report,
and inwardly groaning,
are over.

The rain asks nothing
but that we receive its blessing,
refreshing 
and rejuvenating
our weary souls.
The rain has come 
and all is green with gladness,
once again.

Autumn Budding

 

Pale green against the twigs
and fading summer leaves, 
they hang as an enigma,
as a deposit on what will emerge
months from now,
on the other side of winter.

Young catkins protecting tiny
grains of ripening pollen
growing deep within,
holding on by strength of stem 
and will,
soon buffeted by cold and 
winter's worst, withered
grueling days of getting by
while the darkling world is frozen.

And what of us? 
Like catkins,
battered by grief and confusion,
we deepen into the fruit of
what we are becoming.
Like a pregnant mama's experience of
awkward bodily disruptions,
punctuated by exhaustion,
discomfort, uncertainty...
uncomfortable growth
that supports the newness she will bear.
We will bear.

Next summer, there will be hazelnuts.

Wild Winds

O, blessed somber day of
ferocious winds and coming cold.
Color remnants hurled against the overcast sky
tug at my my unsettled soul.

Wistful day of
wild gales that strip away what was, 
time slipping through my fingers
as I grieve what is passing, 
not yet ready to embrace what will be...
as if I knew.

Rooted companions, the trees 
twist and writhe in the tumult,
trunks and branches whipped by forces 
beyond themselves. 
Responsively, they bow.
Their survival depends upon surrender.
And what of mine?

On this turbulent late-autumn day 
latent fears rise to the surface,
fears in the pit of my stomach,
fears of my own rigidity and
desire to cling.

And yet, where can I go from your Spirit?
Where can I flee from your Presence?
It is enough.

If You Are Quiet You Can Hear the Leaves Fall

I haven't posted in a while but am reposting this, as it is as true today as it was a year ago.

If you are very quiet you can hear the leaves fall, 
following their twirling, swirling dance with your ears as well as your eyes, 
until they come to rest gently at your feet.

Even in the noisy tumult of the gales that loosen their grip,
Even amidst the strident tumult that rages in your mind, 
If you stop, and if you will yourself to listen, 
you will hear their falling-gently-to-earth whispers, 
rustling through their companions
on their once-in-a-lifetime descent.

Background noise so fills our minds right now...
Outer noise of destruction, of greed, of power wielded wrongly.
Inner voices of fear, of sadness, of outrage, of powerlessness. 
Noise that will surely drown us entirely if we let it and render us deaf, 
even to the Good.

We desperately need times of stillness. 
We need to turn our attention to that which is beyond ourselves 
and all our thoughts.
Our heart and soul's very functioning depend upon them.

Grace breaks through as I gaze at reddening and yellowing trees,
standing and swaying in the autumn winds that strip their leaves.
I am renewed.

If you are very quiet, you can hear the leaves fall. 
Listen....

The Making of an Amateur Naturalist

Recently, a new friend asked me the meaning of the word "naturalist" and I began mentally reminiscing about the winding path that has brought me to this place of feeling confident about taking on that mantle for myself. The origins of the word "amateur" are from the Latin root amator, to love, and "naturalist" denotes one who "studies the natural world, or plants and animals as they live in nature." So, yes, somewhere along the line, I fell deeply in love with the natural world and it began to feel like my true home, its floral and faunal inhabitants an intimate part of my life and family.

As a child, though there was no one who named what I observed or taught me how to listen, there were myriad moments of awe that, over time, morphed into familiarity and kinship with the outdoors: buttercups in the grass behind the Air Force apartment building in Germany when I was four years old; a picture that my first grade art teacher passed around of an oak leaf that was definitely not a maple; many, many readings of Winnie the Pooh and his excursions into The Hundred Acre Wood; clandestine bicycle trips with my father and brother to gather and replant abandoned, rouge irises on an air base in New York when I was nine; uncountable hours spent playing house under a big old maple tree and dodging territorial blue jays, when playing too close to their nest; exploring our misty, moisty yard in Monterey, CA when I was 10, and finding snails, of all things, among the unfamiliar foliage beneath the live oak trees.

What wove all these random experiences together into a cohesive whole were our yearly family trips to my grandparents who lived in the Tug River valley in the eastern Kentucky Appalachian Mountains. There I went to sleep and awoke to the sounds of summer insects. I paid attention to the yellow jackets feasting on fallen apples as I walked barefoot through the grass. Along the roadsides I breathed in a spicy scent from an unknown source that only decades later I discovered to be one of the goldenrod species. In my grandparents' garden I picked beans and corn from plants that towered above me and got to feed what few meal scraps there were to their one black chicken, Susie.

Through the years, through all these experiences, the ways of the natural world seeped into my soul and formed me. I became ever more attentive to the large and small invitations to pay attention - from the caravan of ants at my feet, hurrying on their way to raid a rival ant colony to the startling  whoosh of immense wings as a pair of bald eagles took flight from a branch, far  above my head. In time, the outdoors became the place to which I turned when the rest of life became too much to bear. It became the place to ponder that which I did not understand, as well to give exuberant thanks for unexpected joys. In it and through it, I sensed God's whispers and opened my heart and soul in glad response.

And so, once again, as so I often write...the natural world offers this same welcoming invitation to all of us. As dusk falls you might go outside and listen for the loudly chirping cardinals that are bidding goodbye to the day. Or as first light dawns, listen for the recently arrived white-throated sparrows singing their clear "Sam Peabody, Peabody, Peabody" song. Or you might step out your door, allowing your eyes to feast upon the last few autumn colors, knowing they'll soon be gone. Or, if you live near trees, pause and close your eyes, catching the fragrance of the fallen leaves around you. 

In all of these invitations and in so many more I wish you peace and an enfolding, tangible sense of the Presence that endows and imbues all things.

If You Are Quiet You Can Hear the Leaves Fall

If you are very quiet you can hear the leaves fall, 
following their twirling, swirling dance with your ears as well as your eyes, until they come to rest gently at your feet.

Even in the noisy tumult of the gales that loosen their grip,
Even amidst the strident tumult that rages in your mind, 
If you stop, and if you will yourself to listen, you will hear their falling-gently-to-earth whispers, rustling through their comrades on their once-in-a-lifetime descent.

Background noise so fills our minds right now...
Outer noise of destruction, of greed, of power wielded wrongly.
Inner voices of fear, of sadness, of outrage, of powerlessness. 
Noise that will surely drown us entirely if we let it and render us deaf, even to the Good.

We desperately need times of stillness. 
We need to turn our attention to that which is beyond ourselves and all our thoughts.
Our heart and soul's very functioning depend upon them.

Grace breaks through as I gaze at reddening and yellowing trees,
standing and swaying in the autumn winds that strip their leaves.
I am renewed.

If you are very quiet, you can hear the leaves fall. 
Listen....

Telling Time Without a Calendar

Have you heard them? Shrill, clear whistling from the tree tops, sometimes one alone and sometimes a chorus. Spring peepers' last hurrah as they begin to prepare for winter, no longer in the marshes but clinging to trunks and branches high above us all. Or, how about the raucous raspy strident calls of migrating blue jays that descend upon us in late September, hungry for the acorns that our woodland oaks provide. Or the soft and muffled "wick, wick, wicka" at dusk of restless wood thrushes preparing for their long journey to central America, any day now. 

Have you seen them yet? The white-throated sparrows, who arrive every mid-October and the juncos who arrive soon after. Or, perhaps the purple finches who have chosen to feed in this area of southern Maryland for now. Bright red-purple males and grey females with a distinctive white eyebrow stripe, unlike our resident house finches, have come down from the far north to spend time with us, and whether they will stay the winter or ultimately move on is not for us to know. 

Have you noticed their absence?  The antagonistic migrating hummingbird numbers abruptly decreased overnight a few nights ago, and now I see only solitary individuals, dawdling at flowers and feeders until somehow recognizing when their bodies carry enough fat to sustain them on their journey. A few cricket species still sing on, but the true katydids and cicadas are silent, no longer calling from their summer perches in the trees, their breeding season accomplished. The lovely wood warblers, flycatchers and vireos who arrived last spring to bear and raise their families are gone now, excepting a few stragglers, and already I miss the melodies that were my constant companions these last few months.

And what of the changes in the plant life around us?  The winterberry and dogwoods's berries that were still green a couple of weeks ago are now bright red, signaling their nutrients to passing birds. The last flowers of the season, New England and aromatic aster, orange coneflower, and the ever present white frost aster, continue to bloom in riotous color, signaling nectar and pollen to late season bees and butterflies like the buckeye, and clouded sulfur and monarchs, all still searching for food. 

As we notice these changes, even if we haven't really realized that we have noticed them, we are being invited into a knowing that goes beyond what our busy, technological society deems important. Every day, every season, every moment, we are invited into wonder yet again, and into appreciation and into love for that which surrounds and sustains us. And, in so doing, we come to realize that we don't really need calendars to know what time it is, after all.

Once Again

The light has turned. Every year it happens and every year it catches me by surprise. Just when I think summer will never end, it begins to wane.

The foretelling was there, of course, in the raucous hummingbird migration and the enfolding chorus of droning cicadas, crickets and katydids. Insect calls have picked up where spring's bird song left off and the surrounding woods are filled with rhythmic rattling and tinkling throughout the day and well into the evening. The birds are not entirely silent but they are collectively quieter now than earlier in the season. A couple of early morning wood thrushes trill, a single wood peewee whistles, a red-throated vireo questions, and then all is silent again, apart from the insects.

Monarchs float across the landscape, nectaring and laying eggs that will turn into this year's migrants heading to Mexico in a month or so. Lavender mistflower is coming into bloom, and early goldenrod and ironweed dot the roadsides, deep golds and purples, colors of royalty. Scattered here and there through the woodlands stand solitary black gums dressed crimson, harbingers of early autumn, soon to come.

Except for the manic hummingbirds, the season seems to pause, like the river that stills momentarily between the rising and falling tides. Such is an illusion however, as flowers set seeds, wild fruit ripens, insects mate and birds and mammals fatten for whatever lies in the months ahead. 

I am caught between savoring today's unfolding, and knowing what is to come. Predictably, I swing between exhilaration and melancholy, between breathing in the sweetness of each late-summer moment and grieving for what will soon disappear- osprey and barn swallows, butterflies and singing insects, flowers and foliage. 

O, to be like a child, living each day fully for itself, as yet unpracticed in anticipating change. And yet...might not this unwanted anticipation become the very fuel of my gratitude  for what is now ?

Autumn's Invitation

Wildly tossed in morning gales, 
encircled by autumn-tinted woodlands,
Indian grasses cavort in the meadow remnant,
backlit, as though touched by frost,
pearly seedheads, bowing and waving as I pass by.

Tinkling of chilly ground crickets
and hungry goldfinches seeking seed,
Cawing of crows, scolding jays,
Hidden white-throats rustling in the leaf layer,
Wind whispering through sleepy trees.

Autumn's invitation to pause, to breathe,
to ponder, to exult in this one moment I am given, 
in gratitude.

Sacred Spaces

Do you have sacred spaces, where you meet yourself and Him who breathed the world into being? Spaces in which you find refuge or comfort, exuberance or vitality? On this wild and windy autumn day, I have been thinking back to those spaces that have welcomed me, taken my mind off of myself and garnered my full attention for a time.

Spaces like the yard I nudged towards abundance when we lived in Pennsylvania.

Or the marsh that lies between us and the Potomac River, as day breaks and I watch and listen in the day.

Or a patch of leaves in the grass, so arresting that all I can do is stop and sigh a prayer of thanksgiving for the momentary gift of beauty.

And then there was Trail Wood, where my days were filled with noticing and reflection and a kinship with those who had gone before. The following is a piece that came out of that week, in deep appreciation for Edwin and Nellie Teale and the land they stewarded and loved.

Beneficence

I have been brought to this sacred space, for sacred it has become to me who has never been here before. Perhaps a pilgrimage, I have come to watch for fireflies over the fields by night, swallows by day…to listen to crickets and katydids, to late summer bird song and, if I’m lucky, rain on the roof of the old house. I have come to be a small piece of the history of this place, whose future is yet to be written.

 I spend my days outside, a solitary audience, eager to witness the unfolding dramas of this refuge. They come as unexpected gifts, barely audible echoes from Eden, fulfillment of a life time’s longings.

She walks close behind me, as I sit at the picnic table, the mama turkey, murmuring softly to her seven, worried-looking babies strung out behind her, trying to keep up.
Again I sit, and a red-shouldered hawk drops into the nearby catalpa tree, steadily watching me watching him. Does he, as do I, sense communion, as we stare into one another’s eyes?

I wonder at the young rabbits grazing along the driveway, watchful, but not overly concerned with my coming and going. And, in the meadow, downy woodpeckers forage on mullein stalks, gazing steadily as I pass by. Do wild creatures know when they are welcomed?

 “A magic place?” he asked me. A Beatrix Potter kind of place, it would seem.
If there be magic, it comes not by accident, but by the many long years of beneficence towards this land. A living invitation by one who loved the wild for its own sake, who equated ownership with stewardship, who was at home with the untamed inhabitants of this farm.

There is holiness here, born of gratitude for what has been given, where man is but a participant in the life around him and an observer of that into which he cannot enter. Long years of kindliness have fostered fellowship between the wild ones who have flourished within these bounds and the humans who have lived alongside them. I pray that, far into the future, when we who love this land are gone, the kinship between man and creature will persist and this sanctuary, birthed and rooted in peaceful coexistence, will live on.

Where are your own sacred spaces? 

Opening to God on Retreat

We begin our day without words, unaccustomed to quiet.
Gathered together in the dining room, the clinking of utensils on plates and soft thuds of mugs set on tables is the music of our common life, missed when thoughts are spoken.
Sleepy eyes averted and tentative smiles are given in greeting.
Gratitude in spoken blessing and the unspoken, “Amens.”
Kindred spirits communing in the richness of breakfast silence.

I heard them before opening my eyes, mighty gales and downpours at first light.
Grey is the sky and river, dark the mountains and mist fills the valley,
 damp chill in the soggy, saturated air.
The towhee’s whistle and blue jay’s raucous cries punctuate the background murmur of ground crickets and rain falling on the land and my umbrella.
Reddening sumacs, yellow goldenrods and the tiny white asters dance in the wind, oaks and ashes waving their arms wildly in the wetness.
Rainy, windy autumn morning full of promise, pregnant with the possibilities of the unknown, gift of another day.

“What am I called to let go of, so I can fully live this present hour of my life?” she asked us.

Without umbrella, I was eagerly looking forward to seeing the pond, when the drops began again,
Slowly at first, tap, tap, tapping on the still-green leaves, as I turned back.
I came expecting the crimsons, oranges, yellows and purples of last year.
I looked forward to seeing migrating warblers and the frenzied chipmunks again,
but all I saw was a gathering of tiny gnats, zigzagging around in circles on the underside of yellow birch leaves.

I thought I might hear God speak out here…something profound, soul-searching, challenging.
Instead, I hear silence…abundant, enfolding, nurturing silence, except for the tapping of the rain on the trees.

Sacraments of the present moment.

Trail Wood: Moments in September

First light, I step into the clear, cold, still September morning, quiet, but for the birds' restlessness...

Robins chipping, catbirds murmuring in the underbrush, blue jays calling in the distance and
red-bellied woodpeckers dining on woodbine. Grass drips with dew and pale sunlight touches the trees, leaves hovering between the deep green of summer and the colors of autumn, suspended in time.

Many of the meadow flowers have finished blooming, seed heads slowly drying. The fields belong to the goldenrods and grasses now, Indian grass and the bluestems, myriad shades of brown and gold, subtle, muted beauty... beauty of abundance found in seeds and sheltering stalks, already providing for the coming, leaner season.

Sleek, well-fed and rested, she stands, poised in silence, almost invisible in the meadow grasses. Catching sight of me, she startles and bounds effortlessly towards the woods, white tail flagging, beauty in motion, quickly gone.

It rises lazily, taking its time, lighting the treetops, bathing the meadows in white,

extinguishing stars in its brightness. Daylight, at midnight, stretches across the land.
True katydids call slowly in the chill, enunciating each syllable, "Ka-ty-did," "Ka-ty."
Tree crickets, mimicking spring's toad chorus, fill the fields with song, each trilling a different pitch.

Peace permeates the sanctuary tonight...nurturing, strengthening, enfolding...
Trail Wood beneath the harvest moon.

Transitions

He comes at evening, haltingly, tentatively, yet knowing the journey is worth the effort. Foraging is good beneath the feeders, but a turkey venturing into human territory must be wary. The hummingbirds are a study in contrast. Bold, daring, hardly hesitating in their approach, the ruby-throats are filling up at flowers and feeders before their own long journey south. Soon their little tummies will protrude and they will be gone.

It is seldom silent now. Snowy tree crickets, cone-head, bush and true katydids (plus others I do not know) fill the air with sound from dawn to dawn, different species singing at different times of day and night.  Of the birds, goldfinches are the most vocal. Recently fledged young beg incessantly, like the tinkling of tiny bells, from the sweet gum trees across the road. A few half-hearted calls from white-eyed vireos, Acadian flycatchers and eastern wood peewees punctuate the ever present residents' chorus. Chickadees chattering, titmice scolding, white-breasted nuthatches honking and cardinals chipping keep me company through the day.

Canada geese are feeding restlessly, leading their almost grown babies from field to field along the river. Soon the northern migrants will arrive, swelling the pressure on the recently harvested hay fields and farmers will begin estimating how many days of winter grazing will be lost.

Like moments of the water's stillness between the tide's going out and coming in, time feels like it has slowed down, almost to a stop during this transition time from late summer into autumn. Golden days invite me to rest into the rhythm of the earth, to witness the changes that provide for the life of the creatures around me, as they prepare for leaner days ahead.

Such a gift, to know something of the world around me, to be watchful and listening, attuned to the echoes of Creation...the gift of belonging.

Not Yet

The black gums have begun to turn, a mottled orange haze against a still-green canopy.
"Nooo!!!" a part of me cries,
Time, like sand, slipping through my fingers.
"I am not ready! Don't go....not yet," I whimper.

Scattered sassafras and tulip trees yellowing, the odd red maple and woodbine coloring crimson.
The wood thrush's song, slower, more wistful sounding,
 a song of soon-leaving rather than just-arrived.
Are they readying to move on?

Why no sadness at the hummingbird migration?
With feeders and plantings, do I feel like a benefactor in their journey, as if that gives some semblance of control?
My planted landscape colors in autumn - reds, yellows, oranges, purples...another illusion of control, in a look I have designed?

But, the black gum leaves...unexpected, entirely on their own schedule.
So like my body, getting on in years, signs of the of the senescence that will surely come in its own time.
Is this at root in the autumn melancholy? The whisper of advancing age, of endings?

Contemplative practice invites the acceptance of what is, not what I wish were.
Acceptance, the opposite of striving, of holding on.
Will I ever learn?

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. 

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.