Bending

The red and orange leaves are down. The remaining are gold of Beech & Poplar and rust of Oak. While there is an emptiness that arrives with their departure, there is also brilliance as the sun flits through those still hanging in there. The lowly Poplar is the first to leaf out and the last to drop. I stood in the pasture this morning and watched a breeze that I could not feel send remaining foliage spinning into space. For some reason I take comfort in watching the leaves begin their descent even though I know that this is actually their last huzzah.

Autumn is the season of endings. Bach’s second suite has been described as “autumnal” due to the sadness with which it was written and that it evokes. I am particularly moved by this autumn. My father has recently died. His sister in law, a favorite Aunt, has joined him. I have several friends who have been diagnosed with serious illness and others who are dealing with with grief and difficulty of their own. There is a pallor, like a fog, that hangs above the happier flapping of leaves.

We bustle about with the job of finishing. Summer and fall are a prelude to winter. Dragging compost to the large pile down in the pasture, folding up the furniture where we sit in the warm months: in tee shirts, a glass of beer in hand, while we barbecue. Digging holes to carefully set tulip bulbs into, not knowing what will show up, or what the deer will decide to snack on. Eyes forward.

I search for Rumi quotes to send my friend, feeling the helplessness of those on the sideline of illness. I offer to bake bread and bring food because I can’t think of better ways to help.

The morning light that still arrives too early, half-wakes me. Enough so that my brain and bladder become engaged. I toss the wool blankets aside and stagger to the bathroom: returning to doze with dark thoughts spinning. Recognizing the futility and cliché of pondering mortality, I do so anyway. I have seen changes coming, waiting for their arrival like an unwelcome dinner guest that you tolerate. My father’s illness, prolonged, but not prolonged enough. My mother’s depression and anxiety, a responsibility I wear like a heavy backpack. Sam turning fourteen, his back legs becoming more immobile, an ending inevitable.

Hearing our north facing chimes tells me that the wind is changing. I see my friend cut her forever-long hair in anticipation of chemo but smile while talking about it as yet a different mountain to scale. She talks openly about the hold deep fatigue has on her but, as she hugs me and walks away, I recognize her step, it still has enough Tigger in it to bounce.

All of this causes me to try and bend my perspective on things. I accept that the leaves fluttering to the cold ground have finished their turn. In the spring those same trees will sprout anew and each leaf will be unique to that tree. It is the way of things.

Standing in my garden that has been put to bed, with the exception of the kale and broccoli plants, I pull small, cold, tender kale leaves off the vine to saute for the night’s dinner. I pause, enjoy the cool not-yet-icy breeze and look across to the mountain. I hear sounds that seem like they are coming from the hillside behind me but, when I listen intently, I realize that it is not reality; actually, everything is coming from directly in front of me