Morning Without You is a Dwindled Dawn

"Morning without you is a dwindled dawn." ~ unknown

What a poignant quote as suicides fill the news. These are anxious times for many people. I try to be kind always, but I want to do better in reaching out when I sense someone is discouraged, rather than waiting until they reach out to me.

While I'm on the subject of reaching out, yesterday while refueling at a gas station, my grandson and I waited in the car while my husband was inside buying a few items. I noticed a young woman pacing inside. She paused now then to glance at me before resuming her pacing. I watched her walk outside, and directly to my side of the car. She knocked on my window. I opened my door as the automatic window electronics were malfunctioning. She was crying. Said she was stranded, had noticed our VA license plate and was desperate for a ride to Winchester. She just needs a ride down R81. Since it was pouring raining, and our car was loaded to the max, I told her to wait inside while I talk to my husband.

When Jay came back to the car, we discussed things. Scams, the safety of our grandson, more delays to our trip. The woman sat hunched over a table inside, trying not to look at us. We kept hesitating, but finally, Jay asked me what my gut was saying. I didn't respond, just looked into his eyes. Meanwhile, in the back seat, Grandson was strongly expressing his opinion. "There is no room for her. He needs his personal space." I knew he didn't want to share the back seat with a stranger. I knew my quiet, reserved husband didn't want to share the front seat with a stranger. He was already stressed.

Unspoken thoughts flew between us. What if she was our daughter? What if she's running away from an abuser? What if she's part of a scam sting? Someone tried to scam us before at West Virginia rest stop.

My whole gut said 'just act, don't ask questions. Helping always contains risk.' I wanted Jay to come to his own conclusions. After a few more seconds of silence, he got out of the car and went in to talk to her. I reassured the grandson. Soon we were rearranging all the stuff in our car to see if we could make room. We managed to fit her in. I moved to the back seat; she wearily plopped in the front. We talked a bit as women easily do, she in the front and me directly behind her. Then, I saw her head wobble, asked if she wanted a pillow and left her be. Exhausted, she fell asleep.

The day was intense with a delay earlier to fix our window electronics, while Jay got rained on and grandson complained he was cold and getting wet. A blanket easily quieted grandson. The skies couldn't be placated. Pouring rain off and on made visibility difficult. Our old car has no AC and the defogger doesn't work the greatest either. Now we are inviting a detour and a thousand questions from our grandson. Yet she asked for help; she trusted me. The parking lot at the station was packed full and there was one empty space right in front of the spot she paced inside. Earlier we had decided to head home at 12noon rather than 9am. We might have missed this station altogether and the young woman. So many variables to this story.

After the drop off in Winchester, after exchanges of best wishes and deep gratitude, we returned to our route. It was not a 'made a new friend and everything was rosy' kind of an experience. It was awkward, uncomfortable, with lots of unanswered questions.

We came home to flooding. Again. Creek flooded with water over running over our bridge higher than ever. Our 'no pond' meadow sporting a nice pond. Worst though, our lane is almost destroyed. Gravel washed out in heaps in the hay fields and deep ruts in the lane. Must have been a downburst gusher of a rainstorm!

Life is difficult for all of us at times. The hardest thing in the world, for most of us, is to ask for help.

How would any of us survive without a little help now and then?

Let's make it easier for people to ask for help. Let's help before we are asked. Let's continue developing empathy, vulnerability, and kindness.

Because a morning without you would be a dwindled dawn.

Photo: Dawn over Starry Meadows, by Stephanie Landis

One of Those Days

You know how it is....

... on one of those days.

You wake up after a night of restless sleep and uninterpretable dreams only to find a black bear messed up your front yard. And backyard.

Because in your fatigue you chose to believe the bear

had moved on, and you didn't bring the bird feeders inside

overnight.
Plus, there is an ongoing chipmunk explosion in your flowerbeds which brings digging dogs and snakes. You find skunk holes everywhere while cleaning up the bear mess. So there could be a canine + stink rendezuous in your future. You are overwhelmed by the amount of farm work needing to be done. You feel like a failure.

How then do you live?

You work harder and faster, right? Actually, no, it's best to breathe deeply then and go for a walk. Feel the ground beneath your feet. Meditate. Ask for gratitude, patience, an easing of perfectionism, self-acceptance.

Eventually, you find wonder! Which leads to gratitude and self-acceptance.

What a surprise seeing a sunkissed fern that evaded the log skidder, as did Virginia Bluebells and Solomon's Seal. A Pileated Woodpecker scolds above, a cardinal hops across the wooded path in front of you.

As you walk and marvel, you begin remembering who you really are, and how much you love wildlife.

The trees and beasts were here before you, and will probably be here long after you're gone. That too is a wonder! You know you'll find ways to peaceably coexist.

All the work that matters to you will get done; you'll let go of the rest or ask for help.

And all will be well.

When the Roots are Deep, There is No Reason to Fear the Wind

As I sit by the fire in our warm soapstone wood stove, I hear and see wind through my window. Dry leaves piled up against the fence are easily ruffled and stirred as if gathered the arms of a giant, playful child and thrown joyfully into the air.

The leaves leap and twist, their jagged, crinkled shapes scatter in bursts before floating down in huge brown snow-like flakes.

Each gust rattles the house shutters against cedar siding, and trees outside my window stir, lean, tremble in whole body shudders. Once in a while a small branch takes flight, and slams against our bay window, my peripheral vision tracks it but not quickly enough to still a huge startle.

I think of the trees surrounding our house, surrounding the meadows I love, and I pray for the trees: stand firm my friends, hold tight to the ground; thank you for your roots. Roots remind me of the hyacinth on my bay window. Gazing at it's roots amazes me; both roots and bloom are equally beautiful! Yet there is something more intriguing about those luminous, luxurious roots. Roots usually hidden by dirt.

The roots captivated me long before the buds opened, glowing such a stunning white, long, entwined and flowing. Now that the flower is blooming, the aroma is sometimes overpowering. Often I move the vase to our cold mud room, to chill the fragrance, and give my nose a break. I do love the sight of the flower - it's reminder of spring in the dead of winter - but I wonder why the roots draw me even more than the flower. Perhaps they are symbolic of my own transitions, of putting down some new roots. What do my roots look like now? Am I beautifully, healthily grounded?

In these tumultuous times, where leaders bluster and posture like childish bullies, where much seems upside down and continuously changing, what grounds us? Love, family, community, faith, friends, deep wisdom, trust in our own beauty, our inner compass?

I love this story in Second Kings 19 of Elijah standing on a mountain, waiting for God.

 "And behold, the LORD passed by, and a great and strong wind rent the mountains, and broke in pieces the rocks before the LORD, but the LORD was not in the wind; and after the wind an earthquake, but the LORD was not in the earthquake; 

and after the earthquake a fire, but the LORD was not in the fire; and after the fire a still small voice."  

Elijah listened then, and heard his God. 

The voice of Sophia Wisdom, the guidance of Infinite Love

 is heard and experienced when we are willing to go deep, or be in stillness and silence. 

The hyacinth bulb on my window sill has no place to call home, no spot of earth to stake; it sits isolated in a portable vase. Yet, the roots grow deep, grounded for a season within the glass, feeding the flower beautifully. The bulb has within itself the power to grow well. And along with my tender care and admiration, with sunshine and water it had enough community, enough 'home' to bloom where it was planted.

We all have within us the power to care for ourselves, to listen deeply to our own voices, to the still, small voice of Infinite Love. From that grounding point, we simply grow more beautiful, and wiser, and as we open to love and deeper interaction with others.

May you find new depth and tender stillness this year, amid all the confusing hubbub, and remain firmly planted. May your roots, your depth, your insides be as beautiful as your outside.

Sharon

~~

"Maybe you are searching among the branches for what only appears in the roots." Rumi

Job 14 1-17 For a tree there is always hope. Chop it down and it still has a chance— its roots can put out fresh sprouts. Even if its roots are old and gnarled, its stump long dormant, At the first whiff of water it comes to life, buds and grows like a sapling.

"Expectation is the root of all heartache." William Shakespeare (having too high expectations ....my experience!)

Why Post On Facebook?

Do you ever sit through an inspirational message and while completely paying attention to the speaker, an inner conversation also pulses through your brain? Yesterday, at church, I found myself listening deeply to what was being said aloud, and what I was processing on the inside. 

During the children’s sermon, Carrie talked about being present, how we often miss experiencing things that are happening in the moment because we’re too focused on waiting for the next thing to happen. She mentioned getting a Christmas tree with her family, waiting to find the right one, waiting to chop it down, waiting to get the tree home, waiting for the kids to hurry up and find the candy-cane decked tree. She was cold and tired of waiting.  

Later that evening, while looking at her photos of the described event that she posted on Facebook she realized her family had a truly wonderful experience. 

Why didn’t she enjoy it more while actually experiencing it?

https://giantsandpilgrims.com

This really resonated with me. I often enjoy going through my own Facebook photos…. later. 

Dare I admit sometimes because there is only the rosy glow left, minus the noise, impatience and hassle!

In all fairness, as an “HSP,” I can be overwhelmed by ALL that is contained in one moment. Thus I allow myself to focus on one thing, say the aroma of a field of pine trees, the eyes of my grandchild, and then I miss lots of other good things.

(An HSP is a highly sensitive person often described as having hypersensitivity to external stimuli, a greater depth of cognitive processing, and deep emotional response.) 

Enjoying my life later, through Facebook, is a way to savor, to re-experience some of the details I missed. Another coping mechanism innately used by many in therapists, counselors, doctors, service workers is compartmentalizing thoughts and emotions to unpack later, when in a quiet, safe environment. In my special room, I journal, make art, or do some releasing body work like doing yoga or foam rolling. This makes me a good listener to the joys and agonies of the human experience, but it also makes me miss my own life while I’m paying attention to others’ lives. Again, Facebook helps me realign with my own life.

ilslearningcorner.com

  Then there is the low energy often felt by HSPs after       
  stretches of over stimulation. And the overwhelm of trying to
  print and sort tons of photos into real albums that someone 
  is going to have to throw away after I’m gone; Facebook 
  seems easier. Often accused of being lazy in the past, or
  too reserved and unspontaneous, I believe such holding
  back helps me compensate, and even out life's ups and  
  downs.


Yet, I wonder about my Facebook habits. Maybe it’s that annoying depth of cognitive processing, but I’m often conflicted about what to post: do I want to share this, or not, am I remembering everyone’s birthday, am I posting equal photos of my family so no one thinks I have favorites, why do I post photos and others don’t, do I post out of a need for attention or for connection, from compulsion or from an open heart, can I abstain from Facebook for days/weeks without feeling unease? No wonder the speaker’s comments regarding Facebook set off even more cognitive processing!   

I’d love to hear your thoughts - why you engage or only lurk on social media, post photos or choose not to do so.  Does abundance of time or lack of it help you decide, or privacy concerns, or overwhelm over politics and fake news?  What do you find healthy about social media, unhealthy?

Do you also find yourself waiting until later to fully experience something? I get how we often fear intimacy and hold back. I’m not a therapist but it feels like normal humanness to fear overwhelming emotions, vulnerability, pressure and the messiness of human interaction. Facebook can be an easy out, interaction with others that is often too tidied-up, too false and just the pretty stuff posted. Of course, there’s a whole other side of FB, enough for many more blog posts, all the ugly rude comments, trolling, falsehoods, all the causes and woes out there. How much do we engage and ignore? I’ll be living all these questions continually, finding balance rather than answers.   

Whether active on social media or not, learning to be more present to life can increase our tolerance of the human condition in all its beauty and grittiness. Being present can deepen our art making, our experiencing the beauty of the earth, the marvels of our senses, and the joy of being alive right now, rather than simply waiting for the next good thing.

Sunrise over Starry Meadows ~ Stephanie Landis photography

Resources if you wonder if you are an HSP

“Sensitivity is strength. Its also your superpower!” Anna Holden   https://sensitivityuncensored.com/

Safari Search – “An HSP is a highly sensitive person often described as having hypersensitivity to external stimuli, a greater depth of cognitive processing, and deep emotional response.”

Book -The Highly Sensitive Person: How to Thrive When the World Overwhelms You   by Elaine N. Aron 

Another good book - Quiet: The Power of Introverts in a World That Can't Stop Talking      by Susan Cain

Good info on this website, though psychologists say HSP is not a disorder. What Does It Mean to Be Hypersensitive?  Some signs of hypersensitivity include the following: High level of sensitivity to physical (via sound, sigh, touch, or smell) and or emotional stimuli; More likely to suffer from asthma, eczema, and allergies; Easily overwhelmed by too much information. 

https://www.additudemag.com/hypersensitivity-disorder-with-adhd/

What Happens Next?

When we left for vacation, I purposely left behind all work, news headlines, personal and collective angst.  

The last event on our farm before leaving for Cape May, was hosting an Autumn Equinox Celebration. The evening included noticing the perfect balance of day and night at the equinox, and gentle conversation about bringing more balance into our lives. It was a wonderful way to meet new people, ease into slowing down as we prepped for our trip. 

I never anticipated the challenges we'd face on our simple road trip to the beach, but more on that later. 

Once there, our time at the beach was lovely. I did a lot of releasing while  pedaling a smooth-riding, mint-colored beach cruiser up and down Cape May’s glorious promenade. Bird watching and hiking helped Jay and I both release the pressures of the summer, become more attuned to nature and each other. Earth’s grandeur provides a balance to our personal upheavals and the devastation of natural disasters.

Days felt timeless as we sat on the beach watching sunsets. It was pure bliss watching the beach empty of people and refill with gulls, sand crabs and stars above. Such Divine emptiness, empty of thought and care, just aware of being alive, being together, observing, and yet being part of nature!

Sitting together in the stillness provided an easy platform for dialogue and reframing the challenges of our year so far. Yes, we've struggled in transitioning from Pennsylvania to Virginia. Vision and eagerness didn't totally smooth the way. Despite loving our new farm – really loving the strong sense of place we feel here with the wildlife and meadows that bring such joy, we still deeply feel the uprooting. Grounds-keeping here is definitely not like crop farming in Lancaster County, Pennsylvania. We made, and are still making, countless beginner mistakes with the land. Failing and misjudging the cost and management of this beautiful but unfamiliar land takes a toll. Supporting each other through isolation in the country, Jay's heart valve surgery, numerous trips back to Pennsylvania as our children relocated this summer, and the ‘upset apple cart’ feel to our family dynamics takes a toll too. 

We even need to relearn gardening. Bugs and plant diseases we've never encountered turned our food source inedible and us grumpy. Lack of rain, and constant wind, dried everything out. Filling in from local farm markets took effort and expense. There are no roadside produce stands every few miles in this farm country. We came from an area where stands overflow with vegetables and fruit, even five or more kinds of lettuce of every color and flavor! 

Then there’s the energy drain of simply not being known. I underestimated how much energy it takes to build up a new network, break into longstanding communities, and get to know others. Though I make friends easily, I don’t make deep friends easily. It takes energy allowing myself to be known. Starting over at 60 is tricky, especially when not following a job, a network, or having an ‘in-a-nutshell’ reason for relocating. We're quite tired of answering the question, “So, what brings you to the Shenandoah Valley?”

The peace at the beach though, felt deeper than mere vacation happiness. I felt a shift beginning, a new openness, a desire for balance between knowing our up- rootedness and welcoming the putting down of new roots. 

Our drive to the beach was symbolic of our transitioning - fraught with surprises, unexpected dislikes and obstacles. We left for the beach on the hottest day of September (90 degrees) with no air conditioning in the car, accident on I95 around Washington thus a traffic jam in the heat, CD player quit too so no music, GPS was sluggish resulting in missed turns, extra driving, missed ferry ride across bay and the reroute added more driving. 

So like our move, what we thought would be easy was quite difficult, and where we braced for struggle came ease. When we first moved I innocently wondered why all the farms had huge piles of sticks everywhere, and why no one builds stone houses though rocks are prevalent in Rockingham County. The rocks here are too soft for houses but hard enough to bust discbine blades when cutting hay. Farming here means endless rounds of picking up branches and sticks, as the trees here shed like our dogs -profusely!  Stones crop up everywhere but refuse to stay on our lane. After a heavy downpour, when our neighbor’s grandson asked his grandpa where Jay was as he hadn’t seen him for a while, the instant reply was, “Oh, he’s sittin' on his porch cryin’ because all the stones in his lane washed away again.”

How we laughed when told this conversation!

Digging our feet in sand at the beach erased all the heaviness we carried and brought us back to eagerness and vision. Dreams are grand! They carry you through the rough patches. Life is just the hard work that comes afterward, in fulfilling those dreams, or letting go of our expectations of them. Either way, the creating, the sweat and labor is part of the process. Like the crush of waves on the beach, rolling in, crashing, releasing and easing out again, transitioning has it's own ebb and flow. The same Spirit that drew us to Starry Meadows will sustain us, recreate us. And the beauty here balances the rocks and sticks, the energy-drain of relearning and transitioning.

This beach tale ends with our returning home to a scene reminiscent of Lord of the Flies. While we were away, my beautifully decorated pumpkins turned into a fly-fest of rotting, bleeding pulp, the string of lights inside each pumpkin coated with slime! 

And the chestnuts I gathered and left drying on the kitchen counter crawled with maggoty shaped chestnut worms.  (Apparently chestnuts don’t keep at room temp!) Worms trailed down the cupboard, inched and clumped under the dining room table. Soon after I scrubbed the stains off the porch, cleaned up the chestnuts, flies and worms, news of the LA massacre hit the airwaves.

Now, the serenity at the beach seems far away, as does the idealist mentality that  sneaks in on carefree days. Where I want to believe the US will get its collective act together and propel us all toward a saner, more loving, holistic life. Fresh from such idealism, I feel numb. What happens next, when, more than our porches need a good scrubbing?  

Stephanie Landis photography

Again, I start at the beginning: knowing my own heart, accepting what is there with compassion as I open to the new, letting go of what no longer serves.  I recommit to loving the person and piece of earth right in front of me. As I tend the flowers and fields, I tend my soul, making myself and this farm a safe place for others to tend theirs.     

I hope Starry Meadows is a place where people come and fall in love with the earth, or come take a break from their angst by sitting among trees to watch deer or birds. Through individual spiritual direction, workshops, retreats, solstice gatherings, equinox celebrations and contemplative spiritual practices, I hope to participate in community here, an ebb and flow of people who gather to support each other, practice self-acceptance, welcome all, cultivate gratefulness, honor our beautiful planet, walk, sit, meditate and pray through silence, conversation, lament and laughter. 

Stephanie Landis photography

Stephanie Landis photography

We are not evangelists, marchers or activists. We provide sanctuary for life's pilgrims. We do our part; let others do theirs. Together, one by one, group by group, through rest, healing, faith and work, we can be the collective difference, and a non-anxious presence in the world. 

I'll leave you with a paraphrased poem of Psalm 131 by Nan Merrill:

    Most gracious Presence, let me not 

be self diminishing,

nor arrogant, boasting of my virtuous deeds.

Let me not seek fame or set my heart on riches.

Help me calm and quiet my soul,

like a child quieted at its

mother's breast; like a child that is quieted,

so be my soul. 

I shall be at peace in You,

O Breath of my breath. And, 

I shall be at peace. 

https://www.facebook.com/StarryMeadows/

Not Just Another Dentist Story

Does anyone not cringe at this photo?

Yes, this is a dentist story. 

I broke a tooth. I had no choice but to call the dentist. Ugh, and I already have an appointment scheduled for next week, so I’ll be seeing the dentist twice in 7 days. Be still my nervous system!

In driving 35 minutes to the dentist (make that 50 minutes since I followed 3 tractors with hay rigs), I managed to work myself into a full gut-rolling, sweaty-palmed, pocketbook-squeezing panic.  Oh the drill, the dental pick, the cost!!  The broken one is my ‘sinus tooth,’ the left rear molar. In which my sinus nerve dizzily loops down to dance with the roots of said tooth. 

A hygienist once hit that sinus nerve with one of her pointy picks and hew-boy! I felt stars that morphed into networks of tiny lightning strikes.

So, now I’m in the dreaded chair. Hygienist marvels at the perfect half-moon sliver of missing tooth. She speaks of crowns and caps and removing whole fillings. The rest of my body begins sweating.  She finishes her assessment and ushers in the chief.  

Dentist:  “Wow, I’ve never seen such a perfect tiny sliver of missing tooth!” (I sense a conspiracy)  After a minute of shining lights and poking, she says, “Ah, I can easily fix this. It won’t take but a minute.” (I relaxed just a smidgen, trying not to look as doctor and hygienist put on full body armor and adjust their eyeball-burning head lamps)

Dentist, hesitates as she holds drill mid-air above my head:  “Did you want numbed?”

My brain is trying to read her mind, trying to be grown up, trying to not look petrified. (Yes! Please, knock me out completely. I don’t want to hear, smell, feel or see anything!) I never utter a sound but, I blink one time too many. She reassures me.

Dentist: “It will only be a few seconds. The numbing will be far worse than the drilling.”   

Me: (Still not uttering a sound. Wide eyed though.) The dentist takes off her mask, her headlight, the magnifying scope thingy protruding like an eyeball on a stick between her two beautifully set eyes. She puts one hand on my shoulder and looks right into my eyes. (Probably seeing sweat in there) 

She sees me. And, she lets me see her;  her real self behind the mask. She spreads a table of our shared humanity and invites me to dinner.  

“I promise I will not torture you.”  I look from her very pregnant swollen belly to her kind eyes. Would a pregnant, due-on-Friday female dentist (I overheard talk of her having contractions), lie to me just to get me over myself and get herself home faster? I smile then, showing my trust in her.  

“Okay, go ahead.” (I’ll scream if you hurt me though.) Oh wait. I said that last part out loud.

We both laugh as she repositions her body armor and gets to work. For the first time in my life, since going to a horse doctor of a dentist in my childhood, a tooth is being drilled and I can feel everything.  (I even had teeth extracted as a kid with very little numbing. Was told, ‘It’ll be over before you know it.” It wasn’t. And what kid doesn’t relive trauma over again in nightmares?) 

Decades later, another dentist actually made fun of me for saying I could feel his drilling after he gave me Novocain. His words had ‘big baby’ in them even if he didn’t say them out loud.

Back to the present – as the aroma of metal fills the air, the sound of buzzing too, along with sensations of gagging despite multiple sucky contraptions decorating my lower jaw, pressure, weird hot and cold sensations in my tooth, music playing, people talking in the cubicles to the right and left, smells of close bodies and reminders to myself to 

   

            B

                R

                   E

                       A

                           T

                              H

                                 E 

I manage to cope reasonably well. Dental work is sensory overload for me. Overload usually combined with pain and distrust. I tell myself this dentist must feel air from my nose moving on her gloved hand or she might stop like the dentist before did, and grill me.

“Are you okay?”

“Are you sure?” 

“You have to breathe, so I can continue. No one faints in my office.”

Said more gently than the Not More Novocain Dentist, but with a smile that still didn't reach the heart.

Now, every cell in both of my lungs wants to retain air, but I breathe out. In and out, in and out. Then, just like that, it’s over. This dentist told the truth. It truly was less than a minute of drilling!

Afterward, we chat about babies, giving birth, weather and coffee flavors; about everything but dentistry. I'm delighted in her treating me like a friend, a human being worthy of dignity. Not a ‘tiny mouth that is so inconvenient for me to work in” or ‘oh gawd, not another person with a dentist phobia.’ She is not in a hurry to get home. In fact, she plops on a nearby chair and tells me she’s having contractions. Maybe this is her lucky day. (She’s about to work harder than she’s ever worked but it’s her lucky day.

I left with an astounding thought - I just might love my new dentist! 

                                                    ~ ~ ~ 

My farmer making a mowed hay mandala!   I thought of this in the dentist chair - a lovely distraction. 

This Restless Season

     

So much happening in the world. Isn't it tempting to just be absent, buy pumpkins and mums and shut out all the rest?  Climate change, storms, racial tensions, another world war threatening, suffering, abuse...the list goes on. This week, I counted 6 mentions of horrific child abuse in my Facebook feed alone- half of them not in a far away place, but local. So often I question what is happening to humankind! Equally often, I marvel over the helpers and heroes that work for peace and justice, spread love, expend huge amounts of energy to rebuild after natural disasters, plant trees, monitor wildlife, study climate, assist the ill and poor. 

Our church recently hosted a retreat/workshop on racism. Amid the many sobering statics and historical events of our country, I found this hope: Despite many news stories of violence and injustice, most of us feel safe enough to go outside our homes every day. This means there are more humans who are decent and kind than destructive or violent. Something to celebrate and foster in areas where this hope is not evident.

Whatever this season brings, Autumn always invites me to stay calm and open even as I resist shorter, colder days. Like the chipmunks readying their tunnels underground, I too am deepening, preparing for holing up, hibernating a little during winter. 

September is always a mixed bag for me: beautiful blue skies with white fluffy clouds, clear days, my birthday, the anniversary of my father's death, and memories of 9-ll. I love autumn, and I resist it. I mourn summer's passing, am melancholy with sad memories, while loving and celebrating life. The older one gets, the more one holds contrasts.  

Perhaps it's just me, but this year, it seemed like the eclipse stole the sun faster. The days seemed to shrink quickly after the sun hid behind the moon.

Watching the trees and wildlife on our farm helps me embrace this restless season.

This Restless Season

Autumn breezes tickle the senses.

Geese fly with beating wings, a country

rap in rhythm with pings of acorns, hickory

nuts falling on tin roofs covering tractor

sheds all over Appalachia. Hints of color

and vibrancy soften the end of summer. Short

days bring a thousand small deaths. Yet,

chestnuts in high trees, swell

with prickly glory. Waiting for some secret

signal to drop to the ground with bullying thud,  

camouflaged between twig and fallen leaf,

awaiting the bare feet of those

resisting this restless season, still clinging to

memories of warm grass and popsicles. The apple-

cinnamon coats of deer, frolicking in sun-lit meadows

give way to shades of serious brown.                                                               

Dull, like rotting leaves and discarded

walnut husks.  In Autumn, fawns still romp, but the

herds are edgy, gorging on acorns, rutting, ruining

shrubs with thrashing antlers, boxing

away rivals with delicate hooves.  Then,

even velvet itches; longing fills mammalian souls.

Seasons come, seasons go. Hurricanes blow, floods

rise, as does hope and despair. Tides roll out.

Moons ripen and disappear. The religious

spout platitudes in the face of trauma; atheists

shake their heads, their fists. Lovers simply

roll up their sleeves, bring shovels

and clean water, offer up hearts full of compassion.

How easy, resisting, hardening through

the seasons, with faith or without. Autumn invites

vulnerability, openness. Yes, store up,

prepare; then share, let go. Embrace many small

deaths – humanity’s only way of changing seasonal

coats. Whatever comes, whatever color of skin or

pelt, deep within hearts beat the same.