A Bowl of Red

The first Macintosh apples of the season. Hallelujah!

Wordless Wednesday - Benched

Harbinger

And so it goes..... The sun rises later and sets earlier. Mornings are slightly cooler, and fewer cicadas are performing in the dear old trees in the village. Pots of bright chrysanthemums are starting to appear on thresholds, and autumn is in the air.

When Beau and I went out to the deck around four this morning, the constellation Orion was poking its head above the southeastern horizon, and we waved to it. Then we went back into the house for a good cup of coffee and toast. Beau does not do coffee of course, but he loves a fine bit of hot buttered toast.

When the sun rose, I grabbed my cane and tottered out to the veggie patch to weed, water, tidy up a bit and check on the tomatoes. The exercise was painful, but the deed got done. A little tenacity and obdurate self-sufficiency go a long way.

My daughter and her husband will visit later today and liberate a lovely big bag of curly kale. If not for the trashed ankle, I would probably be trundling a barrow of the stuff around the neighborhood and dispensing it to everyone I meet. Is there a goddess of cruciferous vegetables? Just call me Pomona, or perhaps Demeter.

Friday Ramble - The Measure of Our Days

In early July, the trees on the Two Hundred Acre Wood are gloriously leafed out, and vast swaths of woodland are as dark as night - the shadowed alcoves are several degrees cooler than the sunlit fields skirting them. Winding strands of wild clematis wrap around the old cedar rail fence by the main gate, and the silvery posts and rails give off a fine dry perfume.

The fields are wonders: orange and yellow hawkweeds, buttercups and clovers, daisies, tall rosy grasses and ripening milkweed, several species of goldenrod, trefoils and prickly violet bugloss - everything is set in motion by the arid summer wind and swaying in place. The open areas of waving greenery have an oceanic aspect, and I wouldn't be surprised to see the masts of tall ships poking up here and there.

And then there are the birds, red-tailed hawks circling overhead, swallows and kingfishers above the river, bluebirds on the fence, grosbeaks dancing from branch to branch in the overstory and caroling their pleasure in the day and the season. I can't see them for the trees, but mourning doves are cooing somewhere nearby.

Fritillaries and swallowtails flutter among the cottonwoods, never pausing in their exuberant flight or coming down to have their pictures taken. Dragonflies (mostly skimmers, clubtails and darners) spiral and swoop through the air, a few corporals among them for good measure. These walks are filled with wonders.

I began this morning's post with the words "It is high summer". Then I remembered that the summer solstice has passed, and I went back and started again. And so it goes in the great round of time and the seasons. Many golden days are still to come, but we have stepped into the the languid waters that flow downhill to autumn.

Autumn with its burnished light, its grains and apples and gourds on the vine... The season feels like coming home to this old hen.

Songs in a Different Key

Leaves crunching underfoot, frost crystals limning fences, blowsy plumes of grasses rattling like sabres, leaf strewn puddles on the trail—all are plangent leitmotifs in the windy musical work that is late autumn and early winter. The woodland is an Aeolian harp, a vast musical instrument that only the wind can play.

The landscape is settling slowly into the subdued tints of early winter: bronzes, creams, beiges and silvery greys, small splashes of winey red, burgundy, russet, here and there touches of a deep inky blue almost iridescent in its sheen and intensity.

On our morning walks, frost forms sugary drifts on old wood along our path, dusts ferns and outlines fallen leaves almost transparent in their lacy textures. An owl's artfully barred feather lies in thin sunlight under the fragrant cedars down by the spring and seems to be giving off a graceful, pearly light of its own. The weedy residents of forest, field and fen cavort in fringed and tasseled hats.

One needs another lens and tuning for late autumn and early winter, a different sort of vision, songs in a different key. The senses perform a seasonal shift of their own, moving from bright summer happenings toward other motifs and musics in the landscape, things smaller, quieter and more muted. For all their stillness and subdued appearance, the natural elements we encounter in our rambles are complete within themselves, and they are beautiful, even when they are cold and wet and tattered. There are times when one has to look and listen more closely to bear witness to the earth's indwelling grace, and this is one of those times.

There is light in the world, even in Stygian darkness, and I have to remember that. My camera and lens never forget, and out in the woods, they drink in November's silvery light like nectar. I am thankful that they do. They remind me at every turning along on the trail—we are made of star stuff. We live in a sea of light.

Wordless Wednesday - Harbinger

Creeping Into Autumn

Friday Ramble - Demeter at the Gate

A single burnished leaf from the oak in my neighbor's front yard floats down and comes to rest in a pot of chrysanthemums on her threshold. The deep scarlet in the center of the "mums" matches the vibrant color of her front door, a cheerful thing and very welcoming. Days are still warm here for the most part, but nights are starting to cool down, and it won't be long until villagers have to carry flower pots indoors every evening as darkness falls and the wind comes out of the river.

As the oak leaf makes itself comfortable among the blooms, a long v-shaped skein of geese passes overhead, joyously honking on its way out to farm fields to feed. The great Canadas will return at sunset and spend the night on the river.

Closer to the earth, the swallows of summer are packing their flight bags and making ready to depart, their places on the village telephone wires to be taken by flocks of chirping sparrows and constellations of noisy starlings, who are donning winter plumage and swapping their yellow beaks for pecking equipment in darker shades.

Village squirrels are frantically filling their larders, and I have surrendered to the little blighters in the matter of geraniums - there does not seem to be much I can do to prevent the flowers from being unceremoniously tossed out of their pots and replaced with buried acorns, berries, crabapples and walnuts. For some reason, the squirrels leave chrysanthemums alone. The scent perhaps?

When I awakened this morning before sunrise, Mars and Jupiters were bright presences in the southeast quadrant, and the constellation Orion was rising below them, his club held high and his sword belt twinkling. The appearance of the mythical hunter is one of my seasonal markers. Fall is on its way for sure. 

Above us, autumn stars twinkle in the darkness. Here on earth, apples, corn, pumpkins and hay are ripening. There is no doubt about it—Demeter is at the gate, and she is rattling its rusty latch with enthusiasm. The lady knows the ancient cantrip that grants her entrance to these smoky northern hills, and she knows the key in which it is to be sung. This is my favorite time of the year.

Friday Ramble - The Measure of Our Days

Nearing the end of June, trees on the Two Hundred Acre Wood are gloriously leafed out, and vast swaths of woodland are as dark as night - the shadowed alcoves are several degrees cooler than the sunlit fields skirting them. Winding strands of wild clematis wrap around the old cedar rail fence by the main gate, and the silvery posts and rails give off a fine dry perfume.

The fields are wonders: orange and yellow hawkweeds, buttercups and clovers, daisies, tall rosy grasses and ripening milkweed, several species of goldenrod, trefoils and prickly violet bugloss - everything is moved by the arid summer wind and swaying in place. The open areas of waving greenery have an oceanic aspect, and I wouldn't be surprised to see the masts of tall ships poking up here and there.

And oh, the birds . . . red-tailed hawks circling overhead, swallows and kingfishers over the river, bluebirds on the fence, grosbeaks dancing from branch to branch in the overstory and caroling their pleasure in the day and the season. I can't see them for the trees, but mourning doves are cooing somewhere nearby.

Fritillaries and swallowtails flutter among the cottonwoods, never pausing in their exuberant flight or coming down to have their pictures taken. Dragonflies (mostly skimmers, clubtails and darners) spiral and swoop through the air, a few corporals among them for good measure.

I began this morning's post with the words "It is high summer". Then I remembered that the solstice has passed, and I went back and started again. And so it goes in the great round of time and the seasons. Many golden days are still to come, but we have stepped into the the languid waters that flow downhill to autumn.

Happy Beltane (May Day)

Friday Ramble - Patience

As I started off on the Friday ramble this week, the word that came to mind was patience, although I have already written a ramble on that word.

This week's offering has its roots in the Middle English pacient, the Middle French patient and the Latin word pati, all meaning to undergo something, to get through, or put up with something and do it with grace and dignity - no whining, screaming or going completely off one's nut. It's a fine old word, but it's not a word for wimps and sissies. True patience is fierce stuff, and it is anything but limp, indecisive or docile. Sometimes, it requires serious attitude, bags of forbearance and not a little cussing.

By now, the north should be carpeted in wildflowers, but a storm this week brought subzero temperatures, snow and bitterly cold winds, and the white stuff is staying around, at least for now. There will be no blooming in the woodland for a week or two, and there are times when I think springtime will never come.

What is one to do??? I pick up my camera, sometimes my notebook and pen, brew a pot of tea, pummel bread, stir up fiery curries, go walkabout with Beau, curl up in my favorite chair with a good book. I just breathe, in and out, in and out, in and out.

For some reason, the exquisite keyboard sonatas of Domenico Scarlatti and the Bach preludes tuck everything back into place, and so does anything by Antonio Vivaldi. In recent weeks I have also been listening to the creations of Corelli, Gabrieli and Purcell. When my spirits need a lift, I always seem to go for baroque.

Snow or no snow, we wrap up and head out, look at the sun rising or setting somewhere, watch frozen cattails rattling their bones along the shore of the river. We listen to the wind in the bare trees, lean against fences and watch last autumn's desiccated leaves whirl through the air like confetti. We cling to the fragile hope that the snow will disappear and springtime will show up any day now.

This morning's image is a bloodroot bloom from last year's wanderings around this time. In early spring, they are the first wildflowers emerge from the earth and dead leaves of my favorite place, and they glow like little suns in the woods. Colonies of sanguinaria canadensis always leave me breathless when I encounter them, and I am looking forward to seeing them again. Until then, I cultivate patience and remember.

Little By Little, Returning

And so the dance begins, a pair of geese, not a skein or a flock or a "v", just two magnificent Canadas paddling in a pool of melted river in the sunlight. It continues with a Sharp-shinned Hawk etching wide circles in the sky over the same stretch of river and emitting a short, sharp, joyous cry now and then.

A drowsy groundhog perches on a fence post near the gate of the Two Hundred Acre Wood and looks around in disbelief. No doubt he (or she) is considering returning to the den and going back to sleep. There is bark and twiggy stuff to dine on, but only a few withered berries remain from last year, and it will be a while before dandelions and coltsfoot, their favorite spring nosh, appear. As for timothy, alfalfa and clover, it will be some time before such tender, juicy forages are up and "munchable". 

In a nearby spinney, three glossy deer (young bucks) shuffle their feet and drink in the morning, their breath sending up clouds of steam in the cold air. Only a few feet away, several young male turkeys (jakes) strut their stuff and proclaim their superiority, gobbling at each other, puffing up their feathers, spreading their tails and dragging their wings. Their antics are absolutely hilarious.

The brood of young great horned owls being raised in the old oak tree a mile back in the woods is already half grown, and their attentive parents look both proud and haggard. Feeding young "hornies" is hard work.

In spite of the cold and the wind, it appears that springtime is on its way at last. 

Rumors of Spring

Now and then, there are balmy, brilliant blue days in early March, but mostly, we lurch along between winter and spring, blue skies and grey skies, scudding clouds and no clouds at all. Temperatures are up, down and all over the place, and we (Beau and I) are never sure what to wear when we set out in the morning for our first walk, a light, waterproof jacket one day, a warm parka the next.

Wonder of wonders, a gnarly old willow down by the creek was putting up lovely furry catkins a few days ago and the tiny icicles suspended below cradled tiny branches and fragile scraps of green. The little stream at my feet was running free and singing, its waters dark and glossy and filled with possibility. Willow, song and flow are still percolating in my thoughts this morning, a day or two later.

A hodgepodge of seasonal images and motifs perhaps, but not unusual for one of my favorite corners in the great wide world, and I am quite all right with it. There is light in dwindling icicles, in thawing streams and fuzzy little willow buds, and perhaps springtime is not far off. I cling to the thought and turn my collar up against the north wind.

On we go, paw in paw, light flickering through the trees, scraps of green in the landscape around us, geese in the sky above. The slowly awakening world is a symphony written in sound and light, and even our footsteps have a part to play in the performance.

Rumors of Spring

Friday Ramble - Written in the Trees

Paper birch, also called White birch and Canoe birch

(Betula papyrifera)

Here we are on the cusp between winter and springtime, weary of ice and snowdrifts, craving light and warmth. It is still below freezing much of the time, an icy wind scouring the bare trees and making the branches ring like old iron bells.

Perhaps that is to be expected, for springtime is a puckish wight this far north, and after making a brief appearance, she sometimes disappears for days and weeks at a time, fickle lass that she is.  After several days of milder weather, dwindling snowdrifts and happy pottering, temperatures plummeted yesterday, and there was a bitter north wind, but the sky was blue, and there was sunshine. Winter (alas) is not over yet.

For all the seasonal toing and froing, late winter days in the woods have a wonderful way of quieting one's thoughts and breathing patterns, bringing her back to a still and reflective space in the heart of the living world.

I sat on a log in the woods a few days ago, watching as tattered scraps of birch bark fluttered back and forth in the north wind. The lines etched in the tree's parchment were words written in a language I could almost understand when my breath slowed and my mind became still. When the morning sun slipped out from behind the clouds, rays of sunlight passed through the blowing strands and turned them golden and translucent, for all the world like elemental stained glass.

When I touched the old tree in greeting, my fingers came away with a dry springtime sweetness on them that lingered for hours. I tucked a thin folio of bark in the pocket of my parka and inhaled its fragrance all the way home.

Happy March, everyone! 

Small Openings

We have rung every possible seasonal weather change in recent days, the pendulum oscillating from snow and bitter cold to a rain and temperatures above zero. Back and forth, back and forth, back and forth we go.

What to do? A walk on an overcast day is the ticket, dressing warmly and keeping to the area around the creek sheltered by tall old trees. The temperature hovers around zero, but there is a bitter north wind, and our fingers and toes tingle as we (Beau and I) potter along. There are footprints in the snow along the creek's verges, the tracks of birds and field mice, cottontail rabbits, now and then a raccoon. This morning, there are also the prints of a weasel (or ermine as it is known in winter when its fur turns white). Not surprising as the little creature is a fierce and very proficient mouser.

A few days ago, the little waterway was starting to open, but it was cold overnight, and the channel has iced up again except for an opening near the bend where the water flows a little faster. In that small and hopeful aperture, the icy water sparkles, holding clouds and light and whiskery branches. It sings blithely of springtime and green things emerging from the earth, of wildflowers blooming and geese coming home. It counsels patience. Soon, it says, very, very soon. Please, Mama, let it be so.

Frost, Field and Turning Maples

As her appointed time draws to a close, autumn swirls her gypsy skirts and does a last high kick, shakes her tambourine furiously, gives a tad-da with her arms upraised. She lets the great wide world know that she may be leaving, but she will be back.

Every year, a few village maples add their own dazzling touches to the performance in progress. Freewheeling creatures that they are, they do their own thing in their own way, and they do it in their own good time, long after their woody kin have fallen asleep for the winter. Scarlet, orange and gold leaves in November? Bring 'em on.

Scoured by the icy north wind, most of the other trees nearby have been bare and whiskery for several days, but the later turning sisters are standing their ground and putting on a grand show.  No supporting roles for these blithe spirits.

After putting the Samhain/Halloween clobber away for another year, I was feeling a little blue about the vanishing scarlets, oranges and golds. Ditto the ochres, the rusts and the coppery browns. Here's to the madcap, insouciant maple sisters. I needed this.

Songs in a Different Key

Leaves crunching underfoot or rattling like sabres, ice crystals limning fences, blowsy plumes of frosted grasses, leaf strewn puddles on the trail—all are plangent leitmotifs in the windy musical work that is late autumn. At this time of the year, the woodland is an Aeolian harp, a vast musical instrument that only the wind can play.

The landscape is settling slowly into the subdued tints of early winter: bronzes, creams, beiges and silvery greys, small splashes of winey red, burgundy, russet, here and there touches of a deep inky blue almost iridescent in its sheen and intensity.

On our morning walks, frost forms sugary drifts on old wood along our path, dusts ferns and outlines fallen leaves almost transparent in their lacy textures. An owl's artfully barred feather lies in thin sunlight under the fragrant cedars down by the spring and seems to be giving off a graceful, pearly light of its own. The weedy residents of forest, field and fen cavort in fringed and tasseled hats.

One needs another lens and tuning for late autumn and early winter, a different sort of vision, songs in a different key. The senses are performing a seasonal shift of their own, moving carefully from longer, brighter days and grand summer happenings into the consideration of things small, still and muted, but complete within themselves and perfect, even when they are cold and wet and tattered.

There is light in the world, even in these dark times, and I have to remember that. My camera and lens never forget, and out in the woods, they drink in light like nectar. I am thankful that they do and that they remind me at every turning along on the trail—we are made of star stuff. We live in a sea of light.

Happy Mabon (Fall Equinox)

Friday Ramble - Taking Wing

Village children were off to school this week, and I watched them go, walked all the way there (or just to the bus stop at the corner) by proud parents, grannies, nannies, big brothers and sisters and family pets. I have known many of the school-bound kids since they traveled about in prams, and here they are going off to school on their own dear little sneakered feet. Dear me, how time flies...

The youngsters wear garments in confetti colors, carry backpacks and lunch boxes in pink, turquoise and lime green, sometimes tote pint-sized umbrellas patterned in flowers or bunnies or butterflies or polka dots. They bloom like pint-sized peonies out in the street, and watching from the windows, I feel like doing a little blooming too.

Only a short distance away, other brightly arrayed offspring are hatching out in village hedgerows, and they are strengthening their wings for the long journey south to begin in a week or two. When monarch butterflies alight on Michaelmas daisies in bloom, the combination of orange, purple and gold is dazzling. Every butterfly is a stained glass jewel, a wild, vivid and breathtaking wonder. Because of air pollution from forest fires in northern Ontario and Quebec, there have not been many Monarchs in the garden this summer, and I am "over the moon" whenever I see one. Why the passion for butterflies, you ask? They are beautiful, and they are the Old Wild Mother's proof of reincarnation.

There are vibrant colors everywhere we (Beau and I) look in September, and they are a sumptuous treat for these old eyes. It doesn't matter whether the riotous tints are on Virginia creepers, monarch butterflies, coneflowers or tiny raincoats - they invite me to kick up my heels and dance.  The truth of the matter is that I can only flounder and flail and lurch about, but that is quite all right.