Alexandersmap

    Category: seasons

    • The Big Reveal

      “He who is not courageous enough to take risks will accomplish nothing in life.” – Muhammad Ali

      “He who has a why to live for can bear almost any how.” ― Friedrich Nietzsche

      Is courage the leap into the unknown or the perseverance and grit to see it through? I think Muhammad Ali would add that courage requires more of us than simply stepping into the ring, it’s taking the punches and standing up again round-after-round. We all have our own ring to step into, filled with work, family, relationships, fitness goals, writing goals, getting-through-the-day goals.

      What are we prioritizing and what do we let slip away? Isn’t it just as courageous to say no as it is to say yes to something? Perhaps more so? Which does beg the question: What are we really trying to accomplish in our brief time here?

      A long and rewarding career? Wrestling a career from the ground up is a grind, filled with moments of sacrifice and tactics, honor and betrayal, tedium and tenure. How we play it determines just how long and rewarding it turns out to be. Maybe we also prioritize building a strong nest and raising a family. It takes courage simply to have children, especially for the mother, but also courage to stay in the game for the long haul—raising them to be strong advocates for decency and hope.

      Just what do we lean into for the long haul? Comfort? Adventure? Can you be comfortable when you seek adventure? Perhaps, but isn’t it a different kind of comfort than the comfort the person who seeks comfort seeks? Every climb requires discomfort. Every leaper must bear the impact of the landing before leaping again. Discomfort is what we pay now for comfort later. Conversely, comfort now tends to make later more discomfortable. We each must pay our dues in life to get to the place we want to be. Life takes time and courage to see it through.

      The neighbors through the woods had a large shed built last year during the summer months. My bride and I debated just what they were building as it seemingly took all summer to complete the work. She said that whatever it was, we’d have the big reveal when the leaves dropped in the fall and everything would become obvious. Sure enough, that’s exactly what happened.

      It’s worth asking ourselves every time we stand up in our own ring, why am I doing this? For there’s no long-term courage without a compelling purpose. Sometimes the answers are obvious, and sometimes we have to wait for our own big reveal, when the seasons change and the things that were most important all along become apparent. Often, courage is staying the course long enough to find out.

    • Words Spoken Around Embers

      Burnt wood has bared witness to many songs sung
      Warmed up the hands
      And the hearts of the young
      And the old gather round
      Till the flames are all done
      Passing down their words of wisdom
      — Caamp, Of Love and Life

      For all the beauty of October days and the march of amber and crimson southward, it’s the crispness in the air that makes the month resonate. You aren’t just seeing October—you feel it. But crisp air takes on a little bite when the sun drops below the horizon and the last glow of orange and pink fade in the clouds above. This is when we turn our eyes downward, and make our own orange glow, fed with fallen twigs and split wood and tales of days gone by and times we hope will come. October is a time for campfires and conversation.

      There are no perfect days, but somehow we are able to string just enough moments together to make it feel like there is. We ought to find time outdoors with nature, to contemplate things more profoundly timeless and patient than we are. We ought to use our time for productive work that calls to us, be it writing or yard work or something that pays the bills in fair trade for our precious hours. And we ought to spend time with those who round us out and make us feel a part of something bigger than ourselves.

      Gathering around a fire is nothing new, it’s been a part of human existence long enough that we might as well call it the beginning. Conversations inevitably roar with the biggest flames. But when those flames have died down the orange embers speak to you, if you listen to them. This is when conversations become hushed, and the co-conspirators of living draw upon magic. The stars above remind us that time is a uniquely human construct, something we reconcile in such moments with embers. On this spinning globe, living is seasonal. The fire transforms just as the seasons do, just as we do, and we become one with the universe.

      This is October to me.

    • Autumn Whispers

      Well, the leaves have come to turning
      And the goose has gone to fly
      And bridges are for burning
      So don’t you let that yearning
      Pass you by
      — James Taylor, Walking Man

      If life is a collection of experiences, surely autumn is one of the grandest of them all. I favor off-season for the stillness it offers, and generally avoid the lines of tourists making their pilgrimages to places famous for both beauty and popularity. But some things must be done. If you want to see the cherry blossoms in bloom, you must go visit places like Japan or Washington DC in spring when they’re doing just that. And so it is with fall foliage in New England. When it arrives, you must step out and greet it before the leaves literally fall away.

      We aren’t here to let life pass us by. We’re here to embrace the seasons, and make the most of our time. It autumn tells us anything, it’s that life quickly flies past us when we patiently wait our turn. Remember that old expression that the best time to plant a tree was twenty years ago, the second best time to plant a tree is today? So it is with actively living. We must grow into a full life from the moment we resolve to do so.

      Don’t let that yearning pass you by.

    • The Enchanted Witness

      I’d contemplated kayaking out into the middle of the bay to capture the sunrise this morning. That plan blew away in the breeze as the chop and chill nixed the very thought of bobbing along waiting out the first glimpse of the new day. Visions of me paddling back to shore with my tail between my legs and my phone resting on the bottom of the bay made me a land creature instead.

      Then a glimpse of the giant October full moon sinking towards the horizon spurred me up and out the door. I cursed myself for not bringing a better camera than an iPhone, and then checked myself and swung over to gratitude for at least having an iPhone to attempt to capture the moment. We forget, sometimes, just how lucky we are to have so much technology at our fingertips. It wasn’t so long ago that sharing an image of the moon setting with the world a few minutes after taking the picture would have been completely out of reach. Modern life is miraculous when we stop to think about it.

      I never forget how lucky I am to be in a place where I can take such pictures at all. To capture the sunrise 38 minutes after witnessing the moon setting over restless water is itself a blessing. I can’t believe people choose to sleep in instead. In the span of 38 minutes the universe revealed so much of itself, and I found myself the enchanted witness.

      Thanks for your company this beautiful morning.

      Moonlight surfing on waves as the moon set over Buzzards Bay
      Moon setting, 9 October 2022 (forgive the blurry iPhone picture)
      Sunrise, 9 October 2022

    • Here Today

      Why do we treat the day
      With so much needless fear and sorrow
      It’s not in its nature to stay:
      Today is always gone tomorrow.
      — Wislawa Szymborska      , Nothing Twice

      The autumn days are now impressionist paintings, one after another, until some day, not very long from now, the show will end. Knowing that one of these days that fall color, like the smell of tomato vines in the hot summer sun, like the dance of daffodils in spring, like that walk in freshly fallen morning snow, one of these days will be the last day we’ll experience it. This isn’t a sad thing—it’s a savoring thing. We must celebrate that which is fleeting in the moment we have with it.

      I think this often while swimming. Living in New England, we think about such things as first and last swims of the season. Which swim in Buzzards Bay will be the last before the air and water temperatures dictate prudence? Which swim in the pool in New Hampshire will be the last dip before the cover inevitably goes on and we call it a season? Which flailing leap into Big Island Pond? Since we rarely know for sure where our lives will take us, we ought to immerse ourselves in the waters of the moment.

      And what of old friends? What do we say to someone today when we never know with certainty that we’ll see them again? We sometimes linger with people at the very end, when we have the gift of knowing it will be our last moment together. We know it’s a gift because life is too often more abrupt than that. So shouldn’t we hold that gaze a beat longer? Hug just a little tighter in our time together? Surely we must savor these moments. For today is always gone tomorrow, friend.

    • The Enchantment in Brevity

      It is the season of migrants
      flying at night feeling the turning earth
      beneath them
      — W. S. Merwin, Echoing Light

      You feel it all happening quickly in October. The relentless, accelerating momentum of autumn. Change is quite literally in the air: Harvests and migrations, foliage and crispy air, all point to the shrinking daylight and collectively announcing that things are different now in this part of the world.

      As it happens, you grasp at bits of it to attempt to lock them into your memories. It’s a lot like the last few conversations you’ll have with a loved one who doesn’t have much time left to live—each little gesture, each sentence uttered, are amplified in meaning. It’s now or never, you think. But it’s always now or never, isn’t it?

      The earth is turning beneath us, moving us away from the sun. There’s something bewitching in the air, disguised in reds and oranges and yellows, and in the determined cacophony of migration above. There is enchantment in this brevity. Our days grow shorter every morning, yet it’s never felt so good to be alive.

    • Crispy Days

      “Life starts all over again when it gets crisp in the fall.” — F. Scott Fitzgerald

      Who says beginnings should be saved for New Year’s or spring? Every day offers the same opportunity for transformation. Aside from seasonal planting and certain outdoor sports, a crisp autumn day seems just as appropriate a time to change things up as the first day of spring.

      Crispy days conjure memories of the first day of school, or heading off to college or beginning a new season of your favorite fall sport. The connection to beginnings isn’t all that much of a reach after all.

      So as the air gets good and crispy, and as the earth tilts just so in the Northern Hemisphere, what are we to do with it?

    • The Consent to Discover

      “One doesn’t discover new lands without consenting to lose sight, for a very long time, of the shore.” — André Gide

      The truth is, we each concede more than we consent. The truth is, discovery is a shore too far for many of us. And yet we each set sail in our own way from the past every day. What seems the same alters ever so slightly each day, imperceptibly, inalterably, and we wrestle with the truth of it whether we set our course for distant shores or futilely try to hold on with all our might to what once was.

      This is the time of year when parents post pictures of children heading off to school, on their way to discovering their own new lands. The discovery isn’t just for the children, but the parents too, as they return to a home different than it was before. At such moments the daily leap is profound in its breadth.

      So often we dwell on the gap between where we are and where we hope to be and our confidence waivers. Discovery requires a leap into the unknown, and the courageous consent to make that leap. Indeed, the thrill of losing sight of who we once were and gliding into an unknown future might be frightening, but ultimately, doesn’t it bring us to places we never thought possible?

      Sometimes we get so caught up in what we might lose that we forget about what we might find.

    • A Garden Monk Sips Coffee

      A monk sips morning tea,
      it’s quiet,
      the chrysanthemum’s flowering.
      — Matsuo Bashō

      The mornings are chilly again, and unlike Bashō’s poem, full of the sounds of squirrels gathering food and bickering about who gets what. The water is warmer than the air, for the sun is reluctant to stick around so long nowadays. The seasons are flipping, just as surely as the hickory nuts are falling.

      I think about the fall cleanup and shudder. Is it the chill in the air or the thought of forced labor to come? We dream of autumn for all its beauty, for the crisp air and the scent of fallen leaves. We forget about the work. We pay penance for the pleasure.

      I promised myself I’d drink more tea this summer. I planned to use more of the mint spilling out of its terra cotta pot in an attempt to displace the basil in the neighboring pot. Yet the drink of choice is most often coffee. Does coffee nullify my monk inclinations, or does the ritual matter more? Ask the flowers—for they’ve quietly observed all summer.

      For all the changes, some things remain the same.

    • August Signals

      Black-eyed Susan’s once again dominate, staking a claim on more of the garden every year if you let them. I mostly let them. They remind me of conversations with a favorite gardener who’s moved on, which means they’ll forever receive favorable treatment in my garden.

      Crickets receive no such favorable treatment, but we peacefully coexist nonetheless. They play the soundtrack of August. Most of the year we hardly give crickets a thought, until they begin playing their persistent song from mid-summer to mid-autumn. Thousands of musicians announcing “We’re here, if only so very briefly.” Is there anything more stoic than a cricket?

      The gardener senses the seasons. No calendar is required. The days grow shorter even as the heat continues. For these are the dog days of August, marked by black-eyed Susan’s dancing to the persistent tune of an orchestra of crickets.