Autumnal sun streams through
these yellow maple leaves
translucent as stained glass.
The ground beneath my feet
is strewn with pine cones, acorns.
The random pattern of continuance.
Etched columns of pine and oak.
Incense of resin and fungi.
Great glacial stones for altars.
High winds and choirs of
minor breezes, the whispering hush.
It is the Sabbath. It is enough.
from The Nature of Things
(printed here with the kind permission of the author)
October 23, 2014
October 22, 2014
October 21, 2014
Ruffed Grouse (Bonasa umbellus)
From its size and the length of its tail and wings, my little friend was a young male - he stood in the center of a gravel road in the Lanark highlands, vaguely aware that he ought to be doing something, but not sure what that something was.
His barred and dappled plumage was lovely, ranging from a deep rusty burgundy to cream and gray. The coloring is a form of wild woodland camouflage, designed by nature to protect grouse from predators in their native habitat, the eastern Ontario highlands. If the little guy lived in scrub or on the edge of open fields, he would have been much lighter in color.
In springtime, male grouse drum in the woods to define territory and attract a mate, but getting this close to one in any season is rare. Ornithologists and field naturalists once thought that the grouse's courtship song is produced by drumming its wings against fallen logs, but it is not so. The bird generates its "come hither" song by cupping its wings and whirring them rapidly back and forth in the air, hence its northern nickname of "drummer bird". Striking the ground lightly with one's hand or foot sometimes prompts a grouse to start drumming in season.
This little guy had no idea that motor vehicles are hazardous, and he had no intention of leaving the road. I had to get out the car and shoo him out of our way, then shepherd him over a rail fence and into a nearby field. He made a small purring sound in thanks, and then he disappeared completely into a stand of withered milkweed.
October 19, 2014
... the roots of all living things are tied together. Deep in the ground of being, they tangle and embrace. This understanding is expressed in the term nonduality. If we look deeply, we find that we do not have a separate self-identity, a self that does not include sun and wind, earth and water, creatures and plants,and one another. We cannot exist without the presence and support of the interconnecting circles of creation, the geosphere, the biosphere, the hydrosphere, the atmosphere, and the sphere of our sun. All are related to us; we depend on each of these spheres for our very existence.
Joan Halifax, The Fruitful Darkness
resting easy in saying yes to the world
October 17, 2014
In summer, one can watch adolescent sunflowers turning their brilliant heads to follow old Helios around the sky all day long. Young ones are flexible enough to do so, but mature flower heads face east toward the rising sun and do not move.
What seems to be a single sunflower bloom is actually a composite, a collection of over a thousand tiny florets arranged in a perfect spiraling sequence. Each floret is inclined toward the next floret by approximately 137.5°, and in mathematics, this is known as the golden angle. The arrangement creates a series of interconnecting spirals in which the number of left oriented spirals and the number of right oriented spirals are successive Fibonacci numbers.
A lifelong fan of spirals, golden angles and Fibonacci sequences wherever they turn up, I'm always delighted to encounter another, and meeting a sunflower in any season is a happy thing. In these shortening October days, withered specimens of Helianthus annuus are downright wondrous in their earthy coloration, spikiness and sculptural complexity. They're forthright in their determination to perpetuate their particular genetic brew and engender legions of progeny, mothering whole dynasties of mile-high stalks, fuzzy leaves and beaming golden faces when springtime rolls around next time. It's something I try to remember in winter.
In "Enriching the Earth", Wendell Berry describes the earth's late autumn cycling as "slowly falling into the fund of things", and I am fond of the notion. Going to seed in the last quarter of the year is a good thing, a fine thing, a natural and necessary thing, and every coin in nature's wild banking is kin.
Lacking the delicate coloration, complexity and elegance displayed by sunflowers peering over the fence and dispersing their abundant seed in October, if I can be said to resemble anything at all these days, it's a gnarled and twisty old ironwood tree in the forest. Gorgeous things they are in their own way, and though I have no beauty of my own, I am happy to stand among them out in the leaf strewn wood.
October 16, 2014
THIS TIME OF YEAR
when the light leaves early, sun slipping down
behind the beech trees as easily as a spoon
of cherry cough syrup, four deer step delicately
up our path, just at the moment when the colors
shift, to eat fallen apples in the tall grass.
Great grey ghosts. If we steal outside in the dark,
we can hear them chew. A sudden movement,
they're gone, the whiteness of their tails
a burning afterimage. A hollow pumpkin moon rises,
turns the dried corn to chiaroscuro, shape and shadow;
the breath of the wind draws the leaves and stalks
like melancholy cellos. These days are songs, noon air
that flows like warm honey, the maple trees' glissando
of fat buttery leaves. The sun goes straight to the gut
like a slug of brandy, an eau-de-vie. Ochre October:
the sky, a blue dazzle, the grand finale of trees,
this spontaneous applause; when darkness falls
like a curtain, the last act, the passage of time,
that blue current; October, and the light leaves early,
our radiant hungers, all these golden losses.
Barbara Crooker, from Radiance