Alexandersmap

    Category: seasons

    • A December Dark

      We grow accustomed to the Dark –
      When light is put away –
      As when the Neighbor holds the Lamp
      To witness her Goodbye –

      A Moment – We uncertain step
      For newness of the night –
      Then – fit our Vision to the Dark –
      And meet the Road – erect –

      And so of larger – Darknesses –
      Those Evenings of the Brain –
      When not a Moon disclose a sign –
      Or Star – come out – within –

      The Bravest – grope a little –
      And sometimes hit a Tree
      Directly in the Forehead –
      But as they learn to see –

      Either the Darkness alters –
      Or something in the sight
      Adjusts itself to Midnight –
      And Life steps almost straight.
      — Emily Dickinson

      On Emily Dickinson’s birthday a poem about darkness, or rather, about becoming accustomed to the darkness as we step deeper into it. We might call this night vision, or depression, or we might call it becoming jaded. It all depends on the type of darkness we step into.

      Moonless, rainy nights naturally tend to be amongst the darkest. Place that night into December and you’ve added raw. By all accounts raw, dark and rainy ought to be miserable. Surely nobody would choose it for pleasure optimization, and yet it has it’s own pleasures when we dress for it, or shelter from it in the comfort of a nest. But these are forms of mitigation. The conditions remain.

      Amor fati.

      The thing is, we can step into the darkness and learn to thrive in it. That doesn’t make us a part of the darkness, merely adaptive. That’s a healthy condition in a lifetime filled with rawness, filled with darkness. We adapt and learn to thrive once again. Eventually the rains end, the sun rises, and the days will warm. Count on it. But tread with care until then.

    • So Apart We’ve Grown

      One of these days
      I’m gonna sit down and write a long letter
      To all the good friends I’ve known
      And I’m gonna try
      And thank them all for the good times together
      Though so apart we’ve grown
      — Neil Young, One of These Days

      Talking to an old friend, we asked each other about other old friends. Who have we seen? Who has drifted away? How are the kids? It was a reminder of the person I used to be who danced with the world in the best way he could at the time. We’ve grown so far apart since then. Yet we’re still the same in so many ways.

      The thing is we’re all becoming something more as the layers pile on. Those layers either smother who we once were or keep that person warm for the day when we fling off the years and dance like it’s 1999 again. Like a tree, those growth rings differ year-to-year. Some years are better than others, some are distinctly harder. We reach for the sun in good times and bad and put the seasons behind us, until one day we look around and wonder where the time went.

      One of these days, we’ll all get together again. We won’t miss a beat, I expect, just as we didn’t miss a beat last time. Somewhere deep inside us is the person we were then, thrilled to come out and play the part once again. Sure we’re all so very different as life rolls along and sometimes over us all. But there’s a spark of energy between old friends that remains to rekindle the flames of our youth. A time before mortgages and divorces and funerals for people we thought would be here with us now, in this very conversation, talking about who we were then.

      Those conversations change as we grow, from who we want to be when we grow up to who we want to be now that the kids have grown up. That’s a lot of growth to catch up on some day when we get back together with those old friends. Now is just another growth ring we’ll laugh about (perhaps someday). We all know that the future is coming for us soon enough. But those growth rings make their own music. And we have so very much to catch up on.

    • Stepping Out of the Fog

      It’s a cool, damp and foggy morning in New Hampshire. The biting cold of the last few days now but a memory. Surely, the seasons are upside down nowadays, for all the reasons we already know. The lichen seem to appreciate the continuation of our soggy 2023 into December. It’s been a nonstop party for them. And what are we to do but dress appropriately and get out into it ourselves?

      Appropriate dress this time of year includes bright orange clothing. December 3rd is the last day of hunting season for those using firearms, and December 15th for those with crossbows. I don’t know these dates because I’m a hunter myself, but because I like to exit the forests as intact as I was when I entered them. One must be aware of the risk of wandering in the woods and dress appropriately to mitigate that risk. Or simply wait until hunting season is over—but what’s the fun in that? That’s like waiting for the rain to stop, which is exactly why my summit hiking has stalled indefinitely.

      The thing is, I was going to write about determinism and indeterminism today, but the woods seemed a better place to carry my mind. The world is either set in motion already or we have a chance to change the game by the choices we make. Most people believe the latter but how many actually take the leap? We aren’t just souls lost in the fog, rooted where we landed once upon a time. We have a real chance at changing the game. Is there luck in that landing? Of course there is, and perhaps that’s determinism set in motion, but it ignores the motion itself. We aren’t trees rooted in a foggy forest, we’re each walking through the wilderness in search of something more. Eventually the fog lifts and we might just find our way out.

    • Earning the Warmth

      Through the window
      we could see how far away it was to the gates of April.
      Let the fire now
      put on its red hat
      and sing to us.
      — Mary Oliver, November

      November comes to an end, and just like that, December is at our doorstep. The ambient light of incandescent and LED bulbs make total darkness an impossibility in most cities and suburbia now. The decorations of Christmas have exploded onto the scene, to grow exponentially over the coming weeks. When we get beyond the constant advertisements for last-chance(!) savings on gifts from every retailer on the planet, we’re left with short, crisp days and long, cold nights.

      Some of us thrive in the cold. We have layers upon layers at the ready, lightly dusted from months of being ignored but feeling just right when we slip them on once again. The stakes are driven into the edges of pavement, awaiting their role as traffic cops or road kill for errant plow drivers. Snow? It’s nothing but a possibility for most of us. If we’re lucky, maybe we’ll see snow soon enough. The thrill of the crunch! The hiding of all the brown landscape in a crystal blanket. Snow would make it feel like December has arrived. If not, well, we must seek it out in higher elevations as the hikers and skiers do.

      If November is a time for thankfulness and gatherings (and beards and hastily-written first drafts), December is a time for giving and hustling to find the perfect gift for someone before we give up and give them a gift card to use in seven months when they stumble upon it in the drawer dedicated to such plastic tokens of love. We want to celebrate our love for someone with the perfect gift, and somehow it ends up feeling like a concession to just give them the money. My feeling on such things is that the person who gave the card should be a part of the experience of using the card. Experiences are always best shared with those who wish it for you.

      I’m seeking more poetry in my long nights. More warming fires with conversation and a pet snuggled up close. More time reading the books that evaded me in sunshine. More cold walks around the block with a dog that’s come to expect something new on every stroll. We learn what we are unaware of from a dog on a night walk. I’d forgotten the thrill of the sky changing from step to step, the pull of the leash as the dog sees a rabbit, and the sounds of coyotes, fox and fisher cats crying in the night. I’d forgotten the welcoming warmth of that first step into the kitchen after a brisk walk telling me; “Welcome back”. Indeed.

      The days are still getting shorter for a few more weeks. We must embrace the long, cold nights for all that is hidden in them. For we are alive, and nothing makes you feel that like getting out into it, even for a little while. It’s easy to be warm in the tropics. Up north we must earn it. And in the work we find we love it all the more.

    • Loss and Gain

      Your absence has gone through me
      Like thread through a needle.
      Everything I do is stitched with its color.”
      ― W.S. Merwin, Separation

      Stick season brings a different kind of light with it. Trees stand like soldiers, marching across landscapes, over hills and deep into valleys. Without the cover of leaves, we see things otherwise obscured. The early morning sun reaches deeply across this bare landscape, shining into corners it could never reach in warmer months. Like the trees, we come to see more of the world when something otherwise essential is no longer with us. We sense the loss, yet we survive and carry on for another season.

      We approach the holidays aware of who we’re missing. We make lists of who will be with us for Thanksgiving, and with the list we are reminded of who won’t be there. The puppy, who’s grown so very big in so little time, would have melted under the influence of a certain Navy pilot who could whisper mischievous things to any dog and win them over (come to think of it, he was adept at this with humans too). My own interactions with the pup are heavily influenced by observing his dog whispers once upon a time.

      How do we react to a world that is filled with the starkness of loss? How do we live in a world that at times feels darker by the day? A world that feels colder than it once did when things seemed more hopeful and joyous?

      We ought to remember the trees of stick season, bare and sullen in November, but one day budding into fullness once again. Reminding us that this too shall pass. All those bare trees announce something else in their nakedness. They remain linked to each other—roots entwined through the darkness and cold, supporting the whole until warmer days return again. Returning to that Thanksgiving list, I see the names of all of those who will be with us this year and I’m grateful for the abundance of character (and characters) in my life. It’s a reminder that this remains a favorite season of the year, for the warmth and light and color each of us brings to the tapestry.

    • Stillness and the Swirl

      When despair for the world grows in me
      and I wake in the night at the least sound
      in fear of what my life and my children’s lives may be,
      I go and lie down where the wood drake
      rests in his beauty on the water, and the great heron feeds.
      I come into the peace of wild things
      who do not tax their lives with forethought
      of grief. I come into the presence of still water.
      And I feel above me the day-blind stars
      waiting with their light. For a time
      I rest in the grace of the world, and am free

      — Wendell Berry, The Peace of Wild Things

      Manhattan enthralls. Manhattan is a jumble of ideas all shouting to be heard. Like the world jammed into an island could be expected to behave, there is a jostling for the top. Skyscrapers reaching higher, with more and more flair, like the people who occupy them. Manhattan demands the best we can muster of ourselves. Many fall far short of this, to be sure, but the demand is there for those who will listen.

      I’m usually good for two days of this, three tops, before I crave stillness again. The delight of sitting on the deck stairs with the pup curled up for an ear scratch and stubborn oak leaves drifting to earth. The call of simple stillness drowns out the noise of the streets, drowns out the madness in the world, drowns out the voice inside me that wants more of the bustle and hum of a city anticipating parades and Christmas lights in the weeks to come. This magic is borrowed, not mine to keep.

      The line between chaos and order is thin and tricky to find balance on as we make our way through a lifetime. A bit of poetry on one side, a dance with titans and hustlers on the other. We stumble and right ourselves, lean this way and that, breath deeply and step forward again. Hoping angry winds don’t blow us into chaos. Hoping whispers of doubt don’t betray us. Hoping we can carry on in the darkness beyond our control. We only control the next step.

      New York demands attention. Sirens and horns and the rumble of constant change a soundtrack penetrating my soul. The news of the world is dire. Seemingly darker by the day. How do we find peace despite it all? We ought to remind ourselves that the universe is bigger than the schemes of humanity. We ought to reverently walk in the woods. We ought to be grateful for the quiet familiarity of home even as we race through a city that never sleeps. Even the swirling leaves from a stubborn oak ground themselves eventually.

    • These Bare November Days

      My sorrow, when she’s here with me,
      Thinks these dark days of autumn rain
      Are beautiful as days can be;
      She loves the bare, the withered tree;
      She walks the sodden pasture lane.

      Her pleasure will not let me stay.
      She talks and I am fain to list:
      She’s glad the birds are gone away,
      She’s glad her simple worsted grey
      Is silver now with clinging mist.

      The desolate, deserted trees,
      The faded earth, the heavy sky,
      The beauties she so truly sees,
      She thinks I have no eye for these,
      And vexes me for reason why.

      Not yesterday I learned to know
      The love of bare November days
      Before the coming of the snow,
      But it were vain to tell her so,
      And they are better for her praise.
      — Robert Frost, My November Guest

      Stick season in New Hampshire. Sleet and rain greet me as I bring the pup out for her morning relief. These are darker days, surely, for the days are shorter than they were yesterday and the day before. The earth turns a cold shoulder on the warmth of the sun, and we are left to work with the light that’s left for us.

      I don’t struggle with seasonal depression, but I certainly understand where it comes from. The trick is to get outdoors anyway and greet the day no matter how dismal her response or cold her shoulder. We navigate through our days, rain or shine. That’s not naive optimism, it’s awareness of the conditions around and within. Dress accordingly.

      Frost was a New Hampshire resident, just up the road a bit from where I call home. He lived through his own share of dark Novembers and naked trees. He turned his days into poetry. I wonder sometimes, especially on cold, wet and dark November mornings, what are we doing with our own?

      As the sleet accumulated on the walk, the pup delighted in this new world of snow cone bliss. She ran about, licking up this unexpected abundance of icy treats, tail wagging furiously in her excitement at this previously unimagined experience. When you treat whatever the universe throws at you with such wonder, how can you do anything but love these bare November days?

    • Letting Go

      To live in this world
      you must be able
      to do three things:
      to love what is mortal;
      to hold it
      against your bones knowing
      your own life depends on it;
      and, when the time comes to let it go,
      to let it go.
      — Mary Oliver, In Blackwater Woods

      This is the time of year when the leaves release from the trees and drift in the breeze in waves, becoming a force of nature in their return to the earth. It’s easy to see them as alive—characters in their freedom from the branches that once held them. The tree lets them go in their time, and releases their burden that they may survive another winter season.

      Humans hold on to their own things. Homes full of stuff, people who sap our vitality, positions of honor that sap our soul. Why do we hold so tightly to things that, deep down, we know must be released?

      Identity. We begin to believe that we are that person with that job, or the one who raises those children. For awhile we may be the soccer parent or the blogger, the hiker or sailor or the life of the party. Perhaps even that crazy uncle who says the most ridiculous things and prods nieces and nephews out of their shells. Identity is a tricky thing indeed. We are grounded in it, and let it drive our every decision.

      Human beings always cling to things.
      Practice begins when you stop clinging.
      — Awa Kenzo, Zen Bow, Zen Arrow

      Those trees offer a lesson, don’t they? The tree is rooted in place, reaching for the sky, making the most of whatever season it happens to be in. The leaves are not the tree, but a part of it, nurtured in one season and released in another. Everything has its time. No, the leaves aren’t the tree at all, simply a part of it. It’s the roots that matter far more for the tree to survive.

      What are we rooted in? What do we hold on to far longer than we should? What do we need to let go of to survive another winter and thrive when the season changes in our favor? When the time comes, let go.

    • Halloween Characters

      Another Halloween is upon us. Frightening how quickly the time flies, isn’t it? How quickly we move through our days. The only proper way to honor that is to make this one special.

      Ah, but there’s work to do. People to talk to and things scheduled. But at least we can get a glimpse of adventure in, yes? What is that one thing that will make today memorable—to set it apart from last Tuesday or next Thursday? Every day doesn’t have to be an exclamation point in a long life, but it ought to be the kind of day worthy of the precious investment you’ve made in it.

      To be fair, I can’t remember most anything about any specific Halloween. I remember wearing ridiculous costumes to a few parties, I remember the years when packs of kids would trick or treat through the neighborhood. And I’ve grown familiar with the lean years, when all the kids in the neighborhood grew up and moved away, including my own. These days, we’re lucky to get eight or ten kids at the door for candy. What are we to do with all that candy if the kids don’t come? Hmm.

      If Halloween reminds of us anything, it’s that we are all playing characters in the moment. We can always put on another costume and be someone else for the next party. We can be a superhero or a bum, a princess or a witch, a king or a jester. Really, anything goes if we want to play the part. So why not the rest of the year? What exactly are we doing with our character development anyway? Isn’t it time to be more creative and fun with our choices?

      The thing is, we can dwell on time flying by or we can simply live each day as if it were our last. One day we’ll be right. But let’s hope for a long future, shall we? Full of many more trick or treaters, and the occasional sweet treat. Maybe even a character we’ve been dreaming of being for too many unfulfilled days. Decide what to be and go be it. That’s the trick to a fulfilling life.

      Happy Halloween.

    • Place and Identity

      Given this day,
      Right now
      To ponder;
      Yesterday will not return,
      Who knows about tomorrow?
      — Awa Kenzo, Zen Bow, Zen Arrow

      Yesterday, in one of those only in New England moments, I cleared the lawn of leaves, mowed the lawn neatly halfway across, and in a glance up and behind me witnessed thousands of leaves raining down at once, literally released before my eyes and twirling down onto the lawn that was pristine moments before. I laughed out loud, shook my head and kept mowing the part of the lawn I hadn’t finished yet. Everyone here knows that clearing fallen leaves is a process. The only folks who clear once are those who wait until December, when the risk of early snow or wet leaves frozen to the grass could well be your ruin.

      I used to pay someone to do fall cleanup. His team did a great job too, but I stopped using him when I started mowing my own lawn. This wasn’t an act of frugality, it was an attempt to get back in touch with the plot of land I call home. For I’d completely lost touch with the place and felt the absence profoundly. No such problem now—I’ve become reacquainted with the land. Perhaps overly familiar at times.

      I’m an avid traveller and aspire to see more of this world, but in each place I’m but another soul passing through, taking some photos to remember the place by and (sometimes) writing about it in this blog. Each day spent in the yard or garden is a day not spent doing something appealing elsewhere. And yet the yard and garden have their own appeal.

      The question is, where do we spend our days? Right now is all we have, so why spend it maintaining a yard instead of hiking a mountain or taking a long walk on the beach on a warm October day? Because this is the stuff of life too. I’m just another soul passing through this plot of land too. But I’m also its custodian. The trees thrive on my watch—who’s to say whether they’ll survive the whims of the next homeowner less inclined to spend their Saturdays clearing leaves?

      Yesterday will not return. Who knows about tomorrow? All we can do is make the most of our today, in whatever way adds meaning to our moments. Even if we have to repeat it all again next weekend. Working to maintain the land honors both place and identity. We learn that it’s not just the land that is maintained in our ritual of labor.