I remember seeing catalog pictures and television images, when I was a child, of other children dressed in puffy coats, knit hats and colorful mittens lying and frolicking in piles of colorful leaves. I didn't really have a context for this in my own life, but I knew that it was part of that phenomenon called "autumn" by people living in a place where it could be marked mark by more than the beginning of another interminable school year and a change in the colors of the clothes on the rack at Hinshaws Department Store.
Nearly three decades later, I have a context... and I have the distinction of having already raked a pile of leaves 14 feet long by 6 feet wide by 3 feet high... and having at least 5 times as many leaves still in need of clearing from other areas of the yard. I think I can safely say that I have never seen so many leaves in my life, and I have certainly never had to actually clear so many of them. Well, I suppose I don't *have* to clear them. Several of our neighbors have simply let the leaves perpetually blanket their lawns. I, however, am among the leaf-pile-makers this year for my own sometimes inscrutable reasons.
The temperatures here have been unseasonably warm. It was 78F yesterday, and the forecast for tomorrow touches 80. It's a nice break, especially when I want to be outside and the cooler temperatures we'd begun to expect brought with them the threat of asthma flares. So, pretty much every day (excepting this weekend, when there was singing to do), I have spent 20 to 40 minutes outside, vigorously sweeping leaves into a pile by the street. It's great exercise, even if it is, more than anything, an exercise in futility. Yesterday, the majority of the 40 minutes I spent out there was devoted to clearing the same third of the front lawn I had cleared last week. Somehow, I don't mind.
I can't explain why, exactly, I have enjoyed moving the leaves around so much. The few times the glossy-topped, fuzzy-bottomed ovular leaves needed raking in our front yard in my youth, I wanted nothing more than to be paid richly for my labor or let off the hook. Perhaps it has something to do with the fact that it is just another way I can throw myself into living here, and nobody is telling me I need to do it.
One day last week my job stresses were piling up. I was feeling more than a little burdened, and I needed to expend my mounting energy in a way that wouldn't cause harm to myself or others. The weather was cooler, so I bundled up in my synthetic Ugg-style boots, pants, a scarf and a sweater, grabbed the rake and tore at the lawn with determination. The one thing I had failed to consider was just how strongly the wind was blowing that day. In short order, I found my carefully-corralled leaves scattering themselves across the yard again, spinning aloft like so many earth-toned ballerinas dancing to the music of the wind.
As stressed as I was, my first impulse was to be angry. But at what? At myself for failing to understand physics and the effects of force? At the wind for sweeping through the neighborhood? At the leaves for daring to move from the locations I had assigned for them? At God, for designing a world that I can't control?
I stopped for a moment, looked around, thought a bit, and then began to laugh. Immobilized, I let the wind play in my hair as it undid my work. I actually found myself thinking, "Well, that just means there will be more raking to do tomorrow when I want to melt down under stress and feel the urge to take it out on the leaves." I genuinely didn't care. My stresses had dissipated with the fluttering leaves. I didn't care what the neighbors thought, either. I mean, it is folly to rake on a windy day. Isn't it? And surely it is lunacy to stand there, leaves swirling around me, and laugh.
I guess my raking isn't about the leaves at all. It's about how alive I feel when I see the earth transforming around me. It's about the satisfaction of working with my hands, and letting my all-too-sedentary body feel the burn of exertion. It's about tackling a project that is way too big for me and just working at it, day after day. It's about discovering the beautiful new tender shoots of grass in the freshly-cleared patches that foreshadow the distant spring when the trees will bud and drape themselves anew in lush green robes. It's about letting the burdens of life that don't change -- my job, the endless piles of laundry, dishes needing scrubbing, floors needing sweeping, my favorite persistent worries and obsessions -- give way to a burden, no, an opportunity, that comes only when autumn creeps in with its golden splendor.
Nearly all of the leaves have fallen now. The trees subdivide the lavender-blue sky with their meandering denuded branches. I don't imagine I will be able to rake all of the leaves before I become to busy to rake, ice storms move in or my asthma prevents me from being active outdoors in the cold for more than a few minutes at a stretch. In the meantime, you'll find me here, willing them into piles, laughing at the wind, and relishing the exercise in futility that places me firmly here in this time and place.
Showing posts with label seasons. Show all posts
Showing posts with label seasons. Show all posts
Tuesday, December 11, 2007
Tuesday, November 13, 2007
We're Not in So. Cal. Anymore, MooMoo!
I'm not sure when fall arrived. I had been watching for it, looking for any sign. Then, somewhere in the space of a week or two, autumn crept in when I grew too tired of straining to keep my vigil. 
Now the trees are draped in colors of flame and a few have even shed their leaves altogether in favor of their simple, unassuming winter simplicity. 
The grass is settling down for a nap under the crunchy blanket of oranges and browns. The stream has turned into a leaf-strewn ribbon of glass, and the water level has stopped rising and falling, as if preparing to be frozen in place. 
At night a genuine chill falls, and we curl up on the love-seat to watch a movie or read before the warmth of our modest fireplace.
This weekend we took some time out to picnic at a public park in Raleigh.
We rented a pedal-boat and floated on the lake for a little under an hour, marveling at the deepening colors of the foliage as the gilded sun began its slow descent behind the tree line. 
We shared the our lake-side lunch with geese, ducks and coots, and the lake itself with a blue heron, a few people in small fishing boats and one other couple in a pedal boat. 
It was beautiful, solitary, cool and peaceful.
California is beautiful, there's no question about that, but I, for one, am reveling in a different sort of beauty here in my own backyard. No, MooMoo... we're not in So Cal anymore.
Now the trees are draped in colors of flame and a few have even shed their leaves altogether in favor of their simple, unassuming winter simplicity. 
The grass is settling down for a nap under the crunchy blanket of oranges and browns. The stream has turned into a leaf-strewn ribbon of glass, and the water level has stopped rising and falling, as if preparing to be frozen in place. 
At night a genuine chill falls, and we curl up on the love-seat to watch a movie or read before the warmth of our modest fireplace.
This weekend we took some time out to picnic at a public park in Raleigh.
We rented a pedal-boat and floated on the lake for a little under an hour, marveling at the deepening colors of the foliage as the gilded sun began its slow descent behind the tree line. 
We shared the our lake-side lunch with geese, ducks and coots, and the lake itself with a blue heron, a few people in small fishing boats and one other couple in a pedal boat. 
It was beautiful, solitary, cool and peaceful.
California is beautiful, there's no question about that, but I, for one, am reveling in a different sort of beauty here in my own backyard. No, MooMoo... we're not in So Cal anymore.
Thursday, September 13, 2007
Ch-ch-ch-ch-Changes
Autumn is just around the corner, and nature is preparing to welcome her.
Temperatures are dropping and breezes have picked up, causing the fluttering willow leaves to dance all day and inviting open windows in the morning and evening. The weather is more balmy than suffocating, and the insects are becoming less plentiful. Our herbs have taken root, flourished and are, many of them, starting to go to seed. The trees are beginning to contemplate shedding their adornment, turning yellow in patches as if to try out the new color before committing to the new seasonal look. The stream is low, but clearing -- its bottom visible through the less muddied and algae-clotted water.
Minnows swim, and squirrels frolic, but the deer and other four-legged visitors have become less frequent. The small patch of green beyond the stream, as if overnight, exploded into wild yellow blooms. The sun still shines, but it sometimes rests behind the clouds.
There are things I miss about California, but this place holds incredible charms for me. It's really quite lovely. I feel very blessed. I love to call such a place home.
Temperatures are dropping and breezes have picked up, causing the fluttering willow leaves to dance all day and inviting open windows in the morning and evening. The weather is more balmy than suffocating, and the insects are becoming less plentiful. Our herbs have taken root, flourished and are, many of them, starting to go to seed. The trees are beginning to contemplate shedding their adornment, turning yellow in patches as if to try out the new color before committing to the new seasonal look. The stream is low, but clearing -- its bottom visible through the less muddied and algae-clotted water.
Minnows swim, and squirrels frolic, but the deer and other four-legged visitors have become less frequent. The small patch of green beyond the stream, as if overnight, exploded into wild yellow blooms. The sun still shines, but it sometimes rests behind the clouds.
There are things I miss about California, but this place holds incredible charms for me. It's really quite lovely. I feel very blessed. I love to call such a place home.
Tuesday, August 21, 2007
Life and death at 92°
"More murders are committed at ninety-two degrees Fahrenheit than any other temperature. Over one hundred, it's too hot to move. Under ninety, cool enough to survive. But right at ninety-two degrees lies the apex of irritability, everything is itches and hair and sweat and cooked pork. The brain becomes a rat rushing around a red-hot maze. The least thing, a word, a look, a sound, the drop of a hair and -- irritable murder."
- Ray Bradbury, The October Country, Touched with Fire
At 11:07 today it was 92° in our town, at the weather station about 3 blocks from our little house. I, however, was immune to the irritability factor thanks to the modern wonder of central air conditioning. In fact, today, like most days, I plunged gratefully out into the blistering heat in an effort to thaw my toes. The vent in my office is directly under my desk, so what cool air misses me straight out of the vent tends to glance off the glass desktop and flow right back on to my legs. By the time I stepped outside at about 4:00 pm to check for the mail that didn't come today, the local temperature display on my Google homepage read 103°.
It's very hot here. There's no doubt about that. But somehow the heat itself doesn't bother me... probably because I know I can duck back into the comparatively frigid house on a whim, and it won't be long before even the oppressive heat of a car left to bake in the sun is beaten back. I can't say that the humidity bothers me that much either. Perhaps that is because I remember drinking the thick Dominican summer air with my lungs, and nothing here comes close by comparison.
If my Dominican summers taught me anything, it was to revel in the rainfall that stripped the air of its moisture for a few blessed moments, and left in its wake a cool, calm breath of fresh air that provided some relief from the viscous heat. I remember days spent outdoors in 100° temperatures, building a cinder block house, erecting a wooden fence and walking through haphazardly-constructed neighborhoods of recycled plywood houses. Part of the day would have been spent playing with tiny dark children with bulging tummies and bumpy skin who ran their narrow fingers through my straight hair and tried to touch the blue of my eyes to verify that they were real.
On those days, nothing was more welcome than a sudden cloudburst ... except perhaps some ice cold water, a small bowl of fresh coconut ice cream or the rare treat that was an air-conditioned building, provided the cold wasn't so jarring that it gave me an instant headache. Tired, no, exhausted, we'd stand under the eaves of the sonorous tin roof and let rivulets of water shower us with laughter and strength to do whatever remained to be done before we'd crawl onto the fetid mattresses and swat at the flying roaches that threatened our already scant sleep.
Rain was so essential. Its rhythmic pounding on the rooftops and roads formed part of the rhythm of life. Plants and people grew when the heavens poured. Crops that sustained life, however meagerly, drank thirstily, providing sustenance for the people who labored in the fields, not to mention those half a world away who would buy the distillates of the land in pristine boxes and stir them into their morning coffee.
That's what's missing here this summer. Rain.
We were told it had already been a dry one when we arrived several weeks ago. Watering of lawns must be done on a schedule of alternating days, and, as if by biblical decree, nobody may water on Sundays. Having lived in Southern California, we're no strangers to drought conditions and water restrictions. I'm not sure I remember the last time there was any hint that water was plentiful enough to use it liberally. The brown hills of South County fresh in our minds, we laughed a little at the local definition of "dry" -- especially since the air around us seemed pregnant with moisture and the trees created a skyline of vibrant green. I've since come to realize that there's something about feeling a bit more connected to the land that makes the lack of precipitation somehow more poignant.
When we arrived, the stream in the back of our house teemed with life, and murky, lively water stretched in both directions as far as one could see. Rains caused its borders to creep upwards and outwards and knocked down the long grasses on the banks, and the small wooden bridge served a very real purpose. Today, that same creek has been reduced to a series of algae-green puddles separated by long expanses of dry cracking soil, with occasional outcroppings of moist brown earth where puddles had been yesterday. In fact, I can't see anything now that would pass for a stream in either direction of the largest puddle, sheltered and protected from total extinction by a lone tree whose branches are now bursting with seeds. Instead, we look out on a crack worn into the earth by now-invisible water.
As I have watched the water recede--now to the middle of that forked tree root, now to the bottom, now inches beneath--I can't help but wonder what happened to the turtle we saw crane his neck out of the aqueous green ribbon a few weeks ago. He's not been around. We don't see many tadpoles, either. Then again, we aren't hearing more frogs. We are seeing more snakes and four-legged creatures at the edge of the modest waters. Deer of all ages come around during the the heat of the day, whereas they dropped by only in the morning when we were new to this patch of earth.
I'm kind of embarrassed to admit that most mornings I save about a gallon or two of water, perhaps the run-off from rinsing pieces of fruit and vegetables, or the inch or two of water that remains in yesterday's drinking glasses, and I creep down to my favorite spot on the banks of the great puddle. I watch quietly for signs of life, and then I crouch down and pour the water out onto the ground where it runs off into the shallow pool. Then, still leaning close to the earth, watching for air to bubble up that indicates that some living thing is there under the surface, I pray fervently for rain that will cause the pool to deepen and the water to run again as a living thing.
I want so much to see the life that is there thrive. I want the tadpoles to grow into frogs that will feed on the insects that swarm around the porch light and run their small bodies into my window during the long, hot summer night. I want the deer to find the refreshment of cool water on their parched tongues. I want to know that the skies are giving back what they have taken from the earth. In short, I don't want to see nature exact her own irritable murder of 92°, 100° or 103°.
Sometimes I feel so helpless, restless, here in my air-conditioned room, gazing out on a small corner of the natural world that has existed for millennia without my interference. Still, I feel compelled to do something to halt or slow the inevitable. Ultimately, that life isn't in my hands, but I can't wash my hands of the thought that somehow it is. So, I pray, and I watch the skies, and I look for signs that life goes on.
- Ray Bradbury, The October Country, Touched with Fire
At 11:07 today it was 92° in our town, at the weather station about 3 blocks from our little house. I, however, was immune to the irritability factor thanks to the modern wonder of central air conditioning. In fact, today, like most days, I plunged gratefully out into the blistering heat in an effort to thaw my toes. The vent in my office is directly under my desk, so what cool air misses me straight out of the vent tends to glance off the glass desktop and flow right back on to my legs. By the time I stepped outside at about 4:00 pm to check for the mail that didn't come today, the local temperature display on my Google homepage read 103°.
It's very hot here. There's no doubt about that. But somehow the heat itself doesn't bother me... probably because I know I can duck back into the comparatively frigid house on a whim, and it won't be long before even the oppressive heat of a car left to bake in the sun is beaten back. I can't say that the humidity bothers me that much either. Perhaps that is because I remember drinking the thick Dominican summer air with my lungs, and nothing here comes close by comparison.
If my Dominican summers taught me anything, it was to revel in the rainfall that stripped the air of its moisture for a few blessed moments, and left in its wake a cool, calm breath of fresh air that provided some relief from the viscous heat. I remember days spent outdoors in 100° temperatures, building a cinder block house, erecting a wooden fence and walking through haphazardly-constructed neighborhoods of recycled plywood houses. Part of the day would have been spent playing with tiny dark children with bulging tummies and bumpy skin who ran their narrow fingers through my straight hair and tried to touch the blue of my eyes to verify that they were real.
On those days, nothing was more welcome than a sudden cloudburst ... except perhaps some ice cold water, a small bowl of fresh coconut ice cream or the rare treat that was an air-conditioned building, provided the cold wasn't so jarring that it gave me an instant headache. Tired, no, exhausted, we'd stand under the eaves of the sonorous tin roof and let rivulets of water shower us with laughter and strength to do whatever remained to be done before we'd crawl onto the fetid mattresses and swat at the flying roaches that threatened our already scant sleep.
Rain was so essential. Its rhythmic pounding on the rooftops and roads formed part of the rhythm of life. Plants and people grew when the heavens poured. Crops that sustained life, however meagerly, drank thirstily, providing sustenance for the people who labored in the fields, not to mention those half a world away who would buy the distillates of the land in pristine boxes and stir them into their morning coffee.
That's what's missing here this summer. Rain.
We were told it had already been a dry one when we arrived several weeks ago. Watering of lawns must be done on a schedule of alternating days, and, as if by biblical decree, nobody may water on Sundays. Having lived in Southern California, we're no strangers to drought conditions and water restrictions. I'm not sure I remember the last time there was any hint that water was plentiful enough to use it liberally. The brown hills of South County fresh in our minds, we laughed a little at the local definition of "dry" -- especially since the air around us seemed pregnant with moisture and the trees created a skyline of vibrant green. I've since come to realize that there's something about feeling a bit more connected to the land that makes the lack of precipitation somehow more poignant.
When we arrived, the stream in the back of our house teemed with life, and murky, lively water stretched in both directions as far as one could see. Rains caused its borders to creep upwards and outwards and knocked down the long grasses on the banks, and the small wooden bridge served a very real purpose. Today, that same creek has been reduced to a series of algae-green puddles separated by long expanses of dry cracking soil, with occasional outcroppings of moist brown earth where puddles had been yesterday. In fact, I can't see anything now that would pass for a stream in either direction of the largest puddle, sheltered and protected from total extinction by a lone tree whose branches are now bursting with seeds. Instead, we look out on a crack worn into the earth by now-invisible water.
As I have watched the water recede--now to the middle of that forked tree root, now to the bottom, now inches beneath--I can't help but wonder what happened to the turtle we saw crane his neck out of the aqueous green ribbon a few weeks ago. He's not been around. We don't see many tadpoles, either. Then again, we aren't hearing more frogs. We are seeing more snakes and four-legged creatures at the edge of the modest waters. Deer of all ages come around during the the heat of the day, whereas they dropped by only in the morning when we were new to this patch of earth.
I'm kind of embarrassed to admit that most mornings I save about a gallon or two of water, perhaps the run-off from rinsing pieces of fruit and vegetables, or the inch or two of water that remains in yesterday's drinking glasses, and I creep down to my favorite spot on the banks of the great puddle. I watch quietly for signs of life, and then I crouch down and pour the water out onto the ground where it runs off into the shallow pool. Then, still leaning close to the earth, watching for air to bubble up that indicates that some living thing is there under the surface, I pray fervently for rain that will cause the pool to deepen and the water to run again as a living thing.
I want so much to see the life that is there thrive. I want the tadpoles to grow into frogs that will feed on the insects that swarm around the porch light and run their small bodies into my window during the long, hot summer night. I want the deer to find the refreshment of cool water on their parched tongues. I want to know that the skies are giving back what they have taken from the earth. In short, I don't want to see nature exact her own irritable murder of 92°, 100° or 103°.
Sometimes I feel so helpless, restless, here in my air-conditioned room, gazing out on a small corner of the natural world that has existed for millennia without my interference. Still, I feel compelled to do something to halt or slow the inevitable. Ultimately, that life isn't in my hands, but I can't wash my hands of the thought that somehow it is. So, I pray, and I watch the skies, and I look for signs that life goes on.
Wednesday, August 8, 2007
The Call of the Wild
So, I think this is what people warned us of when they talked of miserable NC summers. Highs this week have been about 100 degrees, and with about 90% humidity, that means it feels like 111 degrees. In case you were wondering, that is hot. Very hot.
I have become very grateful indeed for the modern marvel that is central air conditioning. The house is always a comfortably cool 70-something. However, once or twice per day -- even when it is very hot out -- I like to step out and take in a little bit of the warmth outdoors. I feel I just must go stare into the trees, gaze at the stream and watch the willow branches sway in the thick warm breeze. Perhaps I am insane. Perhaps I am just feeling the a sort of call of the wild.
Today was no different, 111 degrees and all. The stream (which is lower than usual because we haven't had rain in several days) was alive with tadpoles, and the banks boasted a beautiful red flower I had not seen before. On my way back from the stream, something on one of the larger trees caught my eye. It was a wheel bug, an assassin bug that kills its bug prey by stabbing it with its long tubular mouth. I don't just happen to know this... I went to great pains to learn it when I became fascinated by the specimen outside. Dan's reaction when I messaged him to tell him what I had seen was, and I quote, "icky!"
While part of me must concur, I also saw a great deal of beauty in this enormous insect. The details were fascinating, from the wheel on his back and his piercing mouth to the colorful stripes on his lower wings and his prodigious size. The way he blended into the tree bark was really amazing. I watched him for a while, trying to get him to move so I could look at him from a different angle. Fortunately this bug was not feeling aggressive, because adults of this species (which this is) inflict very painful bites.
I find it hard to explain how such a little thing (that would probably cause me some alarm if I found it in my house) evoked such feelings of wonder and fascination... even awe. I was perfectly content, for several minutes, to chase this poor bug around with a scrap of cardboard and a camera, oblivious to the heat and humidity. When it finally had enough of me and flew away, I found myself following its awkward flight. I headed back to the cool, controlled environment of the house with my heart a little lighter for having seen this strange little creature. When the wild calls, I am grateful for the little things that show me how grand this world really is.
I have become very grateful indeed for the modern marvel that is central air conditioning. The house is always a comfortably cool 70-something. However, once or twice per day -- even when it is very hot out -- I like to step out and take in a little bit of the warmth outdoors. I feel I just must go stare into the trees, gaze at the stream and watch the willow branches sway in the thick warm breeze. Perhaps I am insane. Perhaps I am just feeling the a sort of call of the wild.
Today was no different, 111 degrees and all. The stream (which is lower than usual because we haven't had rain in several days) was alive with tadpoles, and the banks boasted a beautiful red flower I had not seen before. On my way back from the stream, something on one of the larger trees caught my eye. It was a wheel bug, an assassin bug that kills its bug prey by stabbing it with its long tubular mouth. I don't just happen to know this... I went to great pains to learn it when I became fascinated by the specimen outside. Dan's reaction when I messaged him to tell him what I had seen was, and I quote, "icky!"
While part of me must concur, I also saw a great deal of beauty in this enormous insect. The details were fascinating, from the wheel on his back and his piercing mouth to the colorful stripes on his lower wings and his prodigious size. The way he blended into the tree bark was really amazing. I watched him for a while, trying to get him to move so I could look at him from a different angle. Fortunately this bug was not feeling aggressive, because adults of this species (which this is) inflict very painful bites.I find it hard to explain how such a little thing (that would probably cause me some alarm if I found it in my house) evoked such feelings of wonder and fascination... even awe. I was perfectly content, for several minutes, to chase this poor bug around with a scrap of cardboard and a camera, oblivious to the heat and humidity. When it finally had enough of me and flew away, I found myself following its awkward flight. I headed back to the cool, controlled environment of the house with my heart a little lighter for having seen this strange little creature. When the wild calls, I am grateful for the little things that show me how grand this world really is.
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