Alexandersmap

    Category: seasons

    • Do You See?

      Said a blade of grass to an autumn leaf, “You make such a noise falling! You scatter all my winter dreams.”
      Said the leaf indignant, “Low-born and low-dwelling! Songless, peevish thing! You live not in the upper air and you cannot tell the sound of singing.”
      Then the autumn leaf lay down upon the earth and slept. And when spring came she waked again—and she was a blade of grass.
      And when it was autumn and her winter sleep was upon her, and above her through all the air the leaves were falling, she muttered to herself, “O these autumn leaves! They make such noise! They scatter all my winter dreams.” — Kahlil Gibran, Said a Blade of Grass

      Stepping out with the pup, the acorns thudding across the yard, the crisp welcome of change in the air. A perfect day for an autumn tale, and Gibran’s classic fits the bill nicely. Why haven’t I used this before? Have I, and don’t recall? Everything is recycled eventually, given enough time.

      We have a few weeks to go before the leaves really begin to fall vigorously. It’s still harvest time for most everything. There’s still time to track the changes, to be aware, to present. Dare wait a day and look at all we’ve missed!

      I’m reminded of a rower I once coached who came from a different part of the country. Autumn in New England was all new to him, and he marveled at everything. Every day he would get to the boathouse early and look at a maple tree to register the changes from the day before. He did that for the entire fall season, from green and leafy to bare tree limbs, never taking a picture, just being present with that one tree every day. And in his shared awareness, I began to see what was right in front of me all along.

      A lot of years have passed since that time. I wonder what ever happened to that rower, and all of those rowers, really. Reflecting on the accumulated distance, I feel compelled to be more aware myself. For the changes come quickly as the days grow shorter. What’s here today will change tomorrow. The cycle continues well beyond our time here to witness it all. Do you see?

    • September is Made

      “All the months are crude experiments, out of which the perfect September is made.” —Virginia Woolf

      For reasons I won’t get into here, I’ve been reluctant to jump straight into September this year, but I’ve arrived now. On a crisp early evening tonight, I grabbed a book and a good cuppa tea, headed out and got a fire going (more for the crackle than the heat). On days like this, you’ve just gotta get outside.

      The tea gently steered me away from booze (it is a Monday night after all). The fire gave me something to check in on between pages. The book gave me an opportunity to immediately flip the script from the character I play at work to something more adventurous. I read until it was too dark to see the pages anymore, then focused on the flames.

      September is just another month until we do something to make the most of the beautiful weather we are usually blessed with this month. September is made, just as life is made, by deliberate action. Harvest what we can, while we may. For the days are growing shorter.

    • The Harmony of Life

      In my eyes, the garden is beaten down and tired right now. Between a trifecta of the heat and occasional torrential downpours and a family of rabbits that find living amongst delicious plants delightful (to the chagrin of my fence-leaping pup), it’s going through a lot right now. And just as we compare ourselves to our own peak days of fitness and learning and view anything lower than that standard poorly, I compare the garden to where it was a month ago or in its peak in past seasons. It’s a bit unfair of me, I think.

      This week we hosted our neighbors, who delighted in the garden. They saw the beauty that I’d been ignoring while scrutinizing what’s faded. And in seeing it, they reminded me to stop looking at what’s missing and look instead for what is here. We are as happy in life as what we focus on.

      The French have an expression that I’m trying my best to adopt in my own life: l’entente de la vie, which translates directly as the understanding of life, but deeper, means the harmony of life. In other words, living a balanced life with time and attention to actively savoring all the joys available to us. So it pairs well with joie de vivre.

      A big part of savoring is simply being present with what is bringing us joy in the moment. Sure, there will always be something nagging at us that isn’t perfect in our world, but whispering quietly to us in that chorus of misery is something beautiful awaiting our attention. Turn the senses towards that and watch life transform into something more delightful, more delicious, and more harmonious with the act of living. Magnifique!

    • Pinus Strobus

      “How much of this invisible dust must be floating in the atmosphere, and be inhaled and drunk by us at this season! Who knows but the pollen of some plants may be unwholesome to inhale, and produce the diseases of the season?” — Henry David Thoreau

      For all my love of the outdoors, there are a few weeks a years that tax the soul. We’re in the thick of it now: pollen season. Specifically, the pollen of the white pine tree, which expels clouds of pollen that coats everything vomit green with a tinge of phlegm yellow.

      Now I know that statement has a negative connotation, because it’s absolutely meant to, but that doesn’t mean I hold a grudge against the trees. They were here first. I think that I should go instead. Buy a boat and sail away from green clouds to experience blue water.

      Trees are rooted to place. Humans are built to move. Preferably somewhere beyond the reach of Pinus Strobus.

    • Full of Firsts

      We shall not cease from exploration
      And the end of all our exploring
      Will be to arrive where we started
      And know the place for the first time.
      — T.S. Eliot, “Little Gidding      “, Four Quartets

      There’s something in the air again (besides pollen). It stirs about and stirs within. The inclination to wander and discover what has not been experienced before grows. Spring is leading us to summer. Summer leads us to look beyond the familiar garden to the world beyond.

      This time of year has long carried the feeling of change in the air. School years are ending. University students are wrapping up finals and fleeing for faraway places schemed up in study halls. We may never pass this way again, but we surely won’t pass those other ways until we go there. Do go there—while we are young… or young enough.

      Looking back on previous adventures, we know we returned transformed. Go to Vienna or Rome or Edinburgh you cannot help but change. I listen to family and friends talk of adventures they’ve had on their own travels and see the place bubble up in their memories, energizing and provoking passion. I feel it within myself when I reflect on places I’ve been. The world is out there, ready to dance with us in our time. If we crawl out of our shell and get moving.

      Just what are we going to do with this opportunity to roam? Just what are we waiting for anyway? The world is full of firsts awaiting our arrival. This season, be bold and go to meet them.

    • A Purity of Spirit

      “Why let yourself be so torn and traumatized by the inanity and depravity of the epoch in which you are obliged to live? All of that can only graze your skin; it cannot reach the interior self. The outside world can take nothing from you and cannot unhinge you, as long as you do not allow yourself to be disturbed. The events of your time remain impotent before you, as long as you refuse to take part in them, and the madness of the epoch does not constitute a real danger, as long as you conserve in yourself a purity of spirit.” — Stefan Zweig, Montaigne

      My deep sleep was disrupted initially by the distinctive chime of the aurora app, alerting me to a “critical” possibility of seeing the northern lights if I were to get up that very moment and go out for a peek. I lay there, initially debating the wisdom of rising, but in the end I got up to see what was up in the sky. What was up was a deep overcast blocking any possibility of seeing the northern lights.

      My second round of deep sleep was interrupted by the distinctive scrape of plow on pavement. That overcast was snow moving in, and the town, in a departure from the norm, was working to stay ahead of its accumulation on the roadways. Bravo road crews. What’s gotten into you this late in the game? So much for sleep score excellence. Maybe tonight?

      This morning we rise to meet the day with a fresh blanket of snow across the landscape. For those hoping for spring flowers, this is surely a setback. But we all learn that March doesn’t give a damn about our feelings and does whatever comes naturally. And it turns out that living with a few years of March weather is instructive. The world will do what the world will do, ’tis not for us to decide. All we can control is how we react to it.

      These times may be maddening for those with a sense of right and wrong, but that doesn’t mean one must succumb to madness. Don’t let the bastards drag you down. Seek a purity of spirit by developing a keen awareness of beauty in the world, wisdom to be gathered, and joy to be found. Everything is all around us all at once. We may be forced to witness things we don’t like in the world, we may even lose sleep over the best intentions of others, but in the end we choose what we dwell on.

    • It’s Going to Melt, Right?

      You know what they say, “March comes in like a lion, and goes out like a lamb”. And this lion is eating me alive. Snow I can live with, but the frozen layers of sleet, snow and graupel that greeted me on the driveway made me question my choices in life. New Englanders everywhere are asking themselves the classic question of March, “should I just wait for it to melt?”

      The alternative to waiting for it to melt with such a mix is to get to work. Snowblowers don’t work on such stuff. One must test the ticker scraping this crap off the pavement with a sturdy shovel inch by inch. Slow and steady wins the race. Happily the ticker is still ticking.

      The thing is, we choose this lifestyle. What is it about me that believes that a clean driveway is all that important this time of year? It’s going to melt in a few days anyway. Right. Alas, I live by the philosophy of a tidy ship. And I wasn’t in the Navy.

      It comes down to mindful work. I cannot control what is happening in the world, I cannot control the rapid physical or mental decline of people in my life, I cannot control much of anything in the universe, but sometimes I can control how clean my driveway is. And generally it looks pretty darn good for a driveway this far north in a legit tough winter. And then Mother Nature reminded us once again who the boss really is.

      These are days when it helps to have perspective. We are gaining twenty minutes of daylight every week. Things are literally getting brighter. Focus on the beauty in the world, not the maddening setbacks to all that was right and good. For this too shall pass, and soon enough the daffodils will rise to greet us once again. Yes, it’s going to melt. Sooner or later… right?

    • Opened at Last

      That day I saw beneath dark clouds
      the passing light over the water
      and I heard the voice of the world speak out,
      I knew then, as I had before
      life is no passing memory of what has been
      nor the remaining pages in a great book
      waiting to be read.

      It is the opening of eyes long closed.
      It is the vision of far off things
      seen for the silence they hold.
      It is the heart after years
      of secret conversing
      speaking out loud in the clear air.

      It is Moses in the desert
      fallen to his knees before the lit bush.
      It is the man throwing away his shoes
      as if to enter heaven
      and finding himself astonished,
      opened at last,
      fallen in love with solid ground.
      — David Whyte, The Opening of Eyes

      Lately I’ve been missing the owls. I walk at night with the dog, assessing the latest accumulation of snow and ice, and I wonder where the owls have gone. They haven’t gone anywhere, I know, for they’re non-migratory. And yet I don’t see them. I don’t hear them. They’re here, but invisible. A whisper in the dark, like so many hopes and dreams. No doubt they’re watching the pup and me, quietly assessing the seekers. We aren’t food or an existential threat, so why bother with us? The fascination is entirely one-sided. The thing is, one doesn’t walk around the neighborhood with a pair of binoculars and remain on good terms with the neighbors. They already think me a curiosity for all the walking the pup and I do. And so it goes that the owls remain hidden in plain sight.

      We move through life meaning well, but easily distracted by the immediate concerns of the day. We all have our owls that whisper to us, waiting to be found. But how hard are we really looking for them? What seismic shift needs to happen? What triggers action towards our grandest plans? After years of conversing, when do we finally hear those whispers loud and clear?

      The answer is sometimes a jolt to the routine. Glancing up at just the right place to catch an owl staring back at us, or stumbling into the right job. But usually it’s being present with the blank page writing, deleting and writing again until just the right words come to us. Whatever that version of writing is to each of us, the ritual of staying with it until we find it is the same. Serendipity aside, we don’t find what we’re looking for if we aren’t out in the proverbial woods with our nose up and our eyes open. Discovery is nothing but being out there in it, today and every day, aware that we may just find possibility yet.

    • Snow and Boots and Paws

      The snow began in afternoon this time around. Each storm is unique and memorable, if we observe the weather for what it is—alive and vital in its day. We get so busy complaining about the weather that we forget to simply coexist with it. The weather simply is, as we ourselves are. We share this day together and nevermore.

      We walked together, the pup and me. On snowy streets quietly tracked with tires and footprints of those who had ventured out before us. This winter the plows wait a while before facing their task. Why bother? The snow will just keep coming. The price they will pay is the heaviness of their burden. Our price is a slow shuffle through the clinging accumulation. The snow clings to boots and paws, and we feel ourselves rise higher with each step. The pup uses her teeth to pluck the clumps off her paws. I’m not that dexterous and simply kick off the clumpiness.

      All of this makes for a slow go in the snow. But our nightly walk is our ritual, no matter the weather. A hush falls over the street, but for the soft tread of boots and paws, moving through time as the layers accumulate. Each step is heard. Each step is felt. Flake-by-flake and step-by-step, we mark time with progress. Snow and boots and paws. Tomorrow will tell its own tale. Tonight belongs to the three of us.

    • Into the Morning

      I worried a lot. Will the garden grow, will the rivers
      flow in the right direction, will the earth turn
      as it was taught, and if not how shall
      I correct it?
      Was I right, was I wrong, will I be forgiven,
      can I do better?
      Will I ever be able to sing, even the sparrows
      can do it and I am, well,
      hopeless.
      Is my eyesight fading or am I just imagining it,
      am I going to get rheumatism,
      lockjaw, dementia?
      Finally, I saw that worrying had come to nothing.
      And gave it up. And took my old body
      and went out into the morning,
      and sang.
      — Mary Oliver, I Worried

      I let the pup out this morning as I do every morning. She was inclined to stay out longer, and longer still. I glanced out the window and saw she was prancing in the deep snow. There were no rabbits or mice or moles scurrying away from her, just a dog doing her dance with life. And I wondered at my choosing productivity instead.

      The world will go on. We learn this in time. And we learn to focus on getting things done. Our particular things. Productivity and efficiency become tools of our trade. We trust in our routines, rely on our habits. Growth becomes incremental. Sometimes surprisingly exponential.

      When we are focused and engaged in a life we love, we forget to worry so much. Worry is for the less busy. It’s a sign that we aren’t using our time in the way that we’d like to. We think too much instead. Do something with the time and the worry recedes. Worry tomorrow, for we have things to we’d like to do today.

      And so I’ll publish this blog. I’ll roll into my routine of being all that I can be. After all, the world is expecting me to be me today. But that dance in the snow sure looks fun. Far more fun than worrying or resolutely getting things done.