Adoring Autumn

The fall color in Michigan is magnificent this year. It is at that stage in early fall when the trees have not yet relinquished their gaudy leaves. Instead, the sugar maples are showing off their brilliant reds and golds amidst their still-green compatriots.

Ah, fall. I know I write about and extol the virtues of the autumn season an inordinate amount. I just have a big fat crush on fall. For one thing, it has my personality: warm and sunny one day, cold and unfriendly the next. You never quite know what you will get when you arise on an autumn day.

The leaves here in Chicago have been dropping since late August. The late summer drought stressed out the trees, so they started their deciduous dance early. Still, there is an abundance of color. Sometimes I stop dead in my tracks on a walk and just gaze at the breathtaking beauty of it.

It has apparently become fashionable to mock us pumpkin spice-loving fall groupies on social media. The way we embrace all things autumn is downright cult-like at times. A local newspaper editor regularly mentions her tradition of allowing herself to have exactly one pumpkin spice latte every year during the season. Quelle restraint! Meanwhile, I’m making my way through a bag of sinfully delicious apple cider donuts from the farmstand in Michigan where I stopped before heading back home.

I don’t love everything about fall, though. The days have gotten noticeably shorter, for one thing. I’ve had to break out the gloves and other warm outerwear for my daily walks. And this year, in the midst of a pandemic, the prospect of being cooped up inside again feels isolating and lonely.

No matter. I’m still hopelessly in love with autumn. I plan to enjoy every leafy, crisp, pumpkin-infused moment of it while I still can.

Mid-Summer Moods

In Michigan, the corn has grown taller than me, and that means we are past the mid-summer mark here in the Midwest. I always have mixed feelings at this time of year.

On the one hand, I long to shake off the heat-induced lethargy of the “dog days.” As the temps and humidity hover in the 90s, I feel like an old-time Southern belle languishing on my settee. Yet it’s also bittersweet to know the days are growing shorter, and that can only mean the inexorable march toward the gloom of November.

Mixed in with these feelings is my excitement as the school year looms ahead, this year with plenty of angst and uncertainty, to be sure. But my daughter will be starting college, a new chapter in her young life, and I’m thrilled for all that means for her. It won’t be the freshman experience my three other children had. Only a quarter of the student body will be on campus, most classes will be online, and masks will be required everywhere. Yet my daughter will be meeting new people – hopefully lifelong friends – and learning new things, most especially a greater sense of independence and the joy of deep thinking.

By mid-summer, I have made great headway in my reading list but very little in my to-do list of projects I routinely put off. Because students are on vacation, I have the sense that I too have been given permission to loaf around, eat too many sweets, and drink wine with dinner every night. This feeling suits me just fine – until it doesn’t. I get restless and suddenly spring up from my couch, put on my sneakers, and head out for a little exercise.

Last week, my husband and I hosted our first social engagement since the coronavirus hit the United States. We had another couple come over, bringing their own wine and even wine glasses, and we sat six feet apart on our screened-in porch. It was so pleasant to catch up with our friends on a warm summer’s night.

Next up on the reading list is Chinua Achebe’s Things Fall Apart. On TV, I’ve been watching a light confection called Sweet Magnolias. It has been a good counterbalance to the dystopian nightmare scenario of Brave New World, which my daughter and I recently binged on the new Peacock streaming service.

My husband has been cooking on the grill, and I have been baking in the early morning before the heat of the day sets in. Soon it will be time to purchase items for my daughter’s dorm room and make our plans to travel out of state to deposit her safely at school.

The sweet corn will soon be harvested and the fields laid bare. Watermelon will be on its way out and Honeycrisp apples on their way in. I plan to savor the remainder of summer in the Midwest and look forward to the glories of fall.

Evening Stroll

On a hot summer day, the best times to go out for a walk are early in the morning or in the evening, just before dusk. Tonight after dinner, I ventured outside. A pleasant breeze was blowing as I made my way down familiar paths.

As I walked, I saw a shock of bright purple flowers rising from dense green foliage. A blur of red went by as a cardinal took wing in front of me. A teenage girl gave me a smile as she passed, AirPods playing a secret soundtrack in her ears. I could smell dinners being cooked on barbecue grills and hear the shrill cadence of cicadas high in the trees above me.

In midsummer, the hydrangeas are everywhere, huge white snowballs gaily swaying in the breeze. They looked especially apt in front of a huge old white frame house with a sparkling chandelier gleaming in the window. Its owners have spent years lovingly restoring the home with its stained glass windows and wrap-around front porch. Around the corner is brand new construction, not quite ready for the new life of the family that will soon move in. Across the street sits a vacant, shabby, forlorn structure that will no doubt soon have a date with a bulldozer.

The only constant in life is change, and we are borne on its cleansing tide.

As I made my way home, soft lamps in windows and on front porches lit my way, along with lazy fireflies flitting across lawns. Soon my town would be enveloped in darkness, the only sounds the rumbling of trains and the swish of car tires on asphalt.

I am home now, safe within strong walls, happy to be alive and to reflect on an evening stroll.

The Fragility of Life

My husband and I were unable to sleep in our bedroom the other night due to a minor infestation of flying pests. We are staying at a lake in Michigan, and I had stashed a couple of outdoor seat cushions in the closet while failing to inspect them for hitchhikers.

Every spring here, a certain type of fly hatches en masse only to mate, lay eggs, and die – all within a matter of a few days. They rise up in a frenzy when we stomp through their nesting grounds in the grass, and they cling to outdoor furniture, boats, docks, and yes, seat cushions. Their brief existence, along with daily news reports of coronavirus deaths, is reminding me of how fragile and finite life is.

My husband and I both have elderly mothers who are at extremely high risk of dying if they come into contact with the virus. We are both over 60 and thus considered in the high risk group ourselves. So we have been taking social distancing and other precautions very seriously, as have our children, I’m happy to say.

And yet, the fleeting nature of our lives should give us pause. We are not guaranteed the next hour, let alone the next year. It’s important to cherish the time we have, even if that time now seems circumscribed by events beyond our control.

With five of us sharing space here, nerves occasionally fray and sometimes snap. We are able to laugh and enjoy ourselves one day but feel gloom or discontent the next. In some ways, that situation is not unique to being quarantined. It’s part of the restlessness within the human soul.

I’m happy to say that my husband and I were able to enjoy a good night’s sleep in our own bed last night. Having spent the better (or worse!) part of the night before catching and squishing flies, I am grateful for the ability to sleep unmolested by flying or creeping things. Yet I feel for the little black critters and their oh-so-brief existences. And I appreciate their ability to remind me of the preciousness of my own.

 

 

Grounded

This week’s yoga focus is being grounded. Having raised four children into adulthood, I am used to thinking of the term “grounded” as something pejorative: a loss of privileges, a sense of being imprisoned in one’s own home. And to be sure, many of us feel like prisoners these days. Yet the thought of feeling grounded can also be a positive thing.

Being grounded means being supported. In yoga, we practice mountain pose. In this pose, our feet and legs push firmly into the earth for a sense of strength and stability. The rock solid earth will hold us. Lying down on my mat, I turn my palms face down into the earth, feeling her steadiness and presence. I am grounded.

Being grounded means being safe. Electrical connections need grounding so that the current doesn’t harm us. And as parents, we know that grounding our children is a way of keeping them from dangerous activities and people. While they are home safe with us, we can breathe.

Being grounded also means comfort. We often describe people with whom we are comfortable as “grounded” or “down to earth.” Their homespun wisdom and practicality can cut through so much intellectual tumult or psychological stress. People with sensory issues use weighted blankets to help them feel more secure as they sleep.

Mother Earth is the nurturer. From the ground comes our sustenance. Life-sustaining trees have roots that reach deep into the ground for nourishment and support. We build the foundations of our homes in the ground, and our homes become the source of all we need: comfort, nourishment, warmth, and stability.

As an adult, I have developed a fear of heights. Ferris wheels, high rises, ski lifts: I find the idea of being up in the air terrifying. Here in Chicago, the Willis Tower has plexiglass shelves that jut out into the air at 1,353 feet above the ground. People stand on them and pose for selfies with giant grins on their faces. No thanks. Take me down the speeding elevator and get my feet back on solid ground.

Children love to play in the earth. They squish their toes in mud or sand, digging and building sand castles or mud pies. I think they recognize the fundamental comfort of being grounded, no matter how exhilarating the heights of jungle gyms or the top of playground slides can be. They want to be held secure in their parents’ arms.

It is good to be grounded, especially in times of fear and uncertainty. In these times, I will treasure the embrace of Mother Earth and plant myself firmly in her arms.

The Secret Life of Trees

I’m currently reading Richard Powers’ fascinating novel The Overstory. It’s a book in which the main characters are the trees and their influence over the Earth, over our lives. From The Overstory, I’ve learned that trees communicate with each other in so many ways: through vast root systems, through chemical signals they transmit with the wind. Powers describes a forest of aspens in Colorado as being one gigantic organism sprouting thousands of interdependent trees. What looks to us like a monolithic, unmoving mass is a complex, life-giving being.

I have always loved trees. My love for them stems from my father’s. He would often take us to the arboretum – essentially a cathedral of trees. To this day I love to wander among the oaks, maples, crab apples, and birches at the arboretum, finding my way along the wood chip paths and stopping to rest under their gentle canopies. I enjoy memories of gathering pine cones with my two-year-old son and the smell of autumn leaves that clung to my children after they had spent the day outside. I think fondly of the kids in the neighbor’s front yard, attempting to conquer the giant, soaring spruces and making me nervous as they climbed a little too high for comfort.

One of the saddest sights for me is the big red X on a tree that signals it needs to be cut down. Like people, trees can be hollowed out by disease. Invasive insects can wipe out whole species of trees. In my backyard, a solitary elm is surviving on a wing and a prayer, most of its relatives having succumbed to Dutch elm disease long ago. But we humans can also be the enemies of trees. Those towering spruces no longer stand sentinel in the front yard next door, having been chopped down to make way for a brand new home.

One of the messages in Powers’ novel is that humans have the dangerous illusion of dominance over our natural environment. And his characters, like humans in real life, do some major damage to the complex ecosystem created by trees. The book is not only a homage to the magnificence of trees. It is also a warning to us about the real consequences of underestimating their role in our survival.

Today is a good day to go outside and look at the trees. They are still naked and awaiting the buds of spring here in Chicagoland. Winter nests are visible in the highest branches. Yesterday I saw a squirrel perched perilously on a slender branch high up in a backyard maple, grasping for something I could not see from my window.  Thanks to The Overstory, I have a heightened appreciation for trees and what they mean to humanity. Thanks to my dad, I will always have a special love for trees.

Sweater Weather

The other day I bought a scented lotion called “Sweater Weather.” The description on the bottle promised notes of “Sun Crisp Apples, Autumn Leaves, Orchard Woods.” The weather has turned appropriately autumn-like, and I’m sitting in my warm kitchen, my feet encased in cozy socks.

Yesterday I was a shade underdressed as I went about my errands in temps that never broke above 60. I thought about the sweaters in my closet that have lain dormant, waiting for the turn of the seasons. At this time of year, my laundry basket is a hodgepodge of shorts, tank tops, leggings, jeans and long-sleeved tops. It’s the transitional period when the weather never knows what it wants to do.

I found a meme on Facebook that I love: “The weather just went from 90 to 55 like it saw a state trooper.” That perfectly expresses life in the Midwest. One moment in flip flops, the next in snow boots.

At home, I’ve embraced the change of season by making pumpkin bread and my first pot of chili for the season. I’ve stocked the fridge with apples and apple cider. I’ve started snacking on mellow creme pumpkins, those cloyingly sweet candies that no one I know besides myself loves.

Around town, the Halloween decorations are coming out. The tips of leaves are starting to match them in their oranges and deep reds. There are days when thick gray clouds loom overhead, yet never does a drop of rain fall. That is so typical of autumn here. In contrast, there are sparkling, sunny days that belie the chill in the air.

I love this time of year. Love wrapping myself in warm clothes and shuffling through the fallen leaves, smelling their burnt scent. Love resting a blanket on my legs while plowing through the stack of books I’ve gotten from the library. Love an extra cup of coffee to ward off the chill in the air.

Sweater weather.

Letting Go

On this day of the autumnal equinox, we welcome the season of fall. There was a bit of a chill in the air during outdoor yoga this morning as our instructor encouraged us to draw energy from the Earth on which we posed – and at the same time, emulate the autumn trees shedding their leaves by letting go.

I’ve seen this metaphor quite a bit this year, and it’s a lovely image. The trees let go of their leaves, returning them to the earth where they rejuvenate the soil and nourish the very tree itself. Likewise, our minds and hearts can practice letting go of all that is dead in us: thoughts, prejudices, worries, anxieties, anger and fear.

What a graceful release it can be to let go. In child’s pose, we curl ourselves toward the ground. With every breath we surrender control of our bodies, and in doing so give them renewed energy and peace as we sink into Mother Earth.

It can be liberating to let go. So much of our lives is spent with clenched teeth and held breath. We worry about our children, our health, our finances, the weary world. But as Jesus teaches in Matthew 6:27, “Who of you by worrying can add a single hour to his life?”

I once heard the mantra, “Let go and let God.” That simple advice has run through my head many times in days of stress and heartache. If you believe that there is a force greater than yourself, a force for good, you will be able to surrender to that force and stop trying to control everything around you.

I know. Easier said than done. Yet I’m confident that if we can let go of our burdens as the trees let go of their leaves this fall, we will be able to move forward with great joy.

Savasana Among the Trees

I have practiced yoga in nature before. Sunrise yoga on the beach was a wonderfully relaxing and fun part of a few past vacations. But today I got to practice my asanas under the trees.

My local arboretum holds outdoor yoga classes, so I decided to sign up. The morning was overcast and humid but not exceptionally hot. I found the location, a patio facing an expanse of grass ringed by trees, and put down my mat. Our instructor, Natalie, was young and sweet-voiced, and she encouraged us to take an affirmation card from a pile of them she’d provided. I selected one at random. It said, “Everything I touch becomes a success.” I smiled.

Natalie took us through the poses, all the while encouraging us and reminding us that it’s okay to fall, to not be perfect. The trees presided over our movements, and when I closed my eyes, I could hear the birds chirping. It was one of the most enjoyable yoga classes I’ve ever taken, and I have to believe it was due to the fact that we were communing with nature.

Every yoga class ends with savasana, or “corpse pose.” The complete and total surrender it entails makes savasana my favorite part of the hour. Afterwards, my mind, body, and soul felt rested, yet invigorated. I slowly gathered my things and started heading toward the parking lot.

On the way, I found a fragrance garden with a bubbling fountain. I sat on a bench and enjoyed the quiet gurgling of the fountain, the flowers and plants, and the emergence of sun from behind the clouds.

Like anyone else, I have my share of worries. My mother-in-law is undergoing a surgical procedure as I write this. My senior in high school is immersed in college applications and trying to figure out who she is and what she wants to become. My other children are living their lives in far flung cities across the U.S. But yoga among the trees has given me an inner peace that helps me know all will be well.

After all, everything I touch becomes a success.

Summer Song

A summer morning is the best time to hear the birds. High up in the trees, they tweet and trill and shriek their secret language while I walk along, out early to beat the August heat. Summer mornings in suburbia are quiet. Many of my neighbors are off on summer vacations. Kids sleep in, and parents enjoy the unaccustomed hush. The only other sounds I hear on my morning walk are the hiss of lawn sprinklers and the occasional whoosh of a car on asphalt.

The sounds of summer are pretty much the same ones I remember from my childhood. As the day gets going, lawnmowers roar, garbage trucks squeak by, and air conditioners hum. (Well, I guess some sounds are newer. No air conditioning in my childhood!) Kids come out and play, and their laughter and chatter can be heard on the breeze, as well as their splashing at the local public pool.

One of my favorite summer sounds is the rumble of thunder in the distance as heavy clouds roll in and a storm heads our way. Of course, I only enjoy these storms when I am safe inside with a good book. But when we lived in California, thunderstorms were one of the natural phenomena I missed most. They’re so fleeting, yet so dramatic.

As the sun goes down on a late summer day, the symphony takes to the trees once again. This time the sound is the pulsing whistle of hundreds of cicadas hidden in the upper reaches of our giant maples and elms. It’s so mysterious. You seldom actually see one of these hideous creatures other than the occasional cicada carcass that falls on the ground or the shell left behind as one grows. Yet they are undoubtedly there, singing and mating and enjoying their too-short lives.

By the time darkness falls, I am usually safely ensconced indoors, away from mosquitoes and their blood-sucking ways. Inside I’m surrounded by the sounds of modern life: the drone of TV voices, the hum of the fridge, the gentle clinks and sloshes inside the dishwasher, and nowadays the occasional ping of a smartphone receiving a text.

Tomorrow there will be the same nature songs to enjoy even as summer starts to wane and my daughter heads back to school.

Thinking about the sounds of summer reminds me of an old Chad and Jeremy number titled “Summer Song.” “They say that all good things must end some day,” sing the pop duo. So let’s enjoy them while we may.