The passing of the summer fills again my heart with strange sweet sorrow, and I find the very moments precious in my palm. Each dawn I did not see, each night the stars in spangled pattern shone, unknown to me, are counted out against me by my God, who charges me to see all lovely things… ~Jane Tyson Clement from “Autumn”in No One Can Stem the Tide
I have missed too much over my life time: one-of-a-kind masterpieces hung briefly in the sky at the beginning and the ending of each day.
For too long, I didn’t notice, being asleep to beauty, oblivious to a rare and loving Artist.
We’re already a month into autumn. I’ve had a hard time letting go of summer. Until the last week of heavy rain and wind, our days have been filled with blue skies, warm temps and no killing frosts.
In short, it felt like perfection: sweater weather filled with vibrant leaf color, clear moonlit nights, northern lights and some outstanding sunrises.
I feel I must try to absorb it all, to witness and record and savor it. God convicted us to see, listen, taste and believe.
Can there be a more merciful sentence for His children, given the trouble we people have been to Him? Yet He loves us still, despite the strange sweet sorrow we cause.
See, listen, taste and believe. I do and I will.
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And then there is that day when all around, all around you hear the dropping of the apples, oneby one, from the trees. At first it is one here and one there, and then it is three and then it is four and then nine andtwenty, until the apples plummet like rain, fall like horse hoofsin the soft, darkening grass, and you are the last apple on thetree; and you wait for the wind to work you slowly free fromyour hold upon the sky, and drop you down and down. Longbefore you hit the grass you will have forgotten there everwas a tree, or other apples, or a summer, or green grass below, You will fall in darkness… ~Ray Bradbury from Dandelion Wine
But I am done with apple-picking now. Essence of winter sleep is on the night, The scent of apples: I am drowsing off. I cannot rub the strangeness from my sight I got from looking through a pane of glass I skimmed this morning from the drinking trough And held against the world of hoary grass. It melted, and I let it fall and break. But I was well Upon my way to sleep before it fell, And I could tell What form my dreaming was about to take. For I have had too much Of apple-picking: I am overtired Of the great harvest I myself desired. There were ten thousand thousand fruit to touch, Cherish in hand, lift down, and not let fall. For all That struck the earth, No matter if not bruised or spiked with stubble, Went surely to the cider-apple heap As of no worth. One can see what will trouble This sleep of mine, whatever sleep it is. Were he not gone, The woodchuck could say whether it’s like his Long sleep, as I describe its coming on, Or just some human sleep. ~Robert Frost from “After Apple-Picking”
I pick up windfall apples to haul down to the barn for a special treat each night for the Haflingers. These are apples that we humans wouldn’t take a second glance at in all our satiety and fussiness, but the Haflingers certainly don’t mind a bruise, or a worm hole or slug trails over apple skin.
I’ve found over the years that our horses must be taught to eat apples–if they have no experience with them, they will bypass them lying in the field and not give them a second look. There simply is not enough odor to make them interesting or appealing–until they are cut in slices that is. Then they become irresistible and no apple is left alone from that point forward.
When I offer a whole apple to a young Haflinger who has never tasted one before, they will sniff it, perhaps roll it on my hand a bit with their lips, but I’ve yet to have one simply bite in and try. If I take the time to cut the apple up, they’ll pick up a section very gingerly, kind of hold it on their tongue and nod their head up and down trying to decide as they taste and test it if they should drop it or chew it, and finally, as they really bite in and the sweetness pours over their tongue, they get this look in their eye that is at once surprised and supremely pleased. The only parallel experience I’ve seen in humans is when you offer a five month old baby his first taste of ice cream on a spoon and at first he tightens his lips against its coldness, but once you slip a little into his mouth, his face screws up a bit and then his eyes get big and sparkly and his mouth rolls the taste around his tongue, savoring that sweet cold creaminess. His mouth immediately pops open for more.
It is the same with apples and horses. Once they have that first taste, they are our slaves forever in search of the next apple.
The Haflinger veteran apple eaters can see me coming with my sweat shirt front pocket stuffed with apples, a “pregnant” belly of fruit, as it were. They offer low nickers when I come up to their stalls and each horse has a different approach to their apple offering.
There is the “bite a little bit at a time” approach, which makes the apple last longer, and tends to be less messy in the long run. There is the “bite it in half” technique which leaves half the apple in your hand as they navigate the other half around their teeth, dripping and frothing sweet apple slobber. Lastly there is the greedy “take the whole thing at once” horse, which is the most challenging way to eat an apple, as it has to be moved back to the molars, and crunched, and then moved around the mouth to chew up the large pieces, and usually half the apple ends up falling to the ground, with all the foam that the juice and saliva create. No matter the technique used, the smell of an apple as it is being chewed by a horse is one of the best smells in the world. I can almost taste the sweetness too when I smell that smell.
What do we do when offered such a sublime gift from Someone’s hand? If it is something we have never experienced before, we possibly walk right by, not recognizing that it is a gift at all, missing the whole point and joy of experiencing what is being offered. How many wonderful opportunities are right under our noses, but we fail to notice, and bypass them because they are unfamiliar?
Perhaps if the Giver really cares enough to “teach” us to accept this gift of sweetness, by preparing it and making it irresistible to us, then we are overwhelmed with the magnitude of the generosity and are transformed by the simple act of receiving.
We must learn to take little bites, savoring each piece one at a time, making it last rather than greedily grab hold of the whole thing, struggling to control it, thereby losing some in the process. Either way, it is a gracious gift, and how we receive it makes all the difference.
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The tree of life my soul hath seen, Laden with fruit and always green; The trees of nature fruitless be, Compared with Christ the Apple Tree.
His beauty doth all things excel, By faith I know but ne’er can tell The glory which I now can see, In Jesus Christ the Appletree.
For happiness I long have sought, And pleasure dearly I have bought; I missed of all but now I see ‘Tis found in Christ the Appletree.
I’m weary with my former toil – Here I will sit and rest awhile, Under the shadow I will be, Of Jesus Christ the Appletree.
With great delight I’ll make my stay, There’s none shall fright my soul away; Among the sons of men I see There’s none like Christ the Appletree.
I’ll sit and eat this fruit divine, It cheers my heart like spirit’al wine; And now this fruit is sweet to me, That grows on Christ the Appletree.
This fruit doth make my soul to thrive, It keeps my dying faith alive; Which makes my soul in haste to be With Jesus Christ the Appletree.
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…the golden hour of the clock of the year. Everything that can run to fruit has already done so: round apples, oval plums, bottom-heavy pears, black walnuts and hickory nuts annealed in their shells, the woodchuck with his overcoat of fat. Flowers that were once bright as a box of crayons are now seed heads and thistle down. All the feathery grasses shine in the slanted light. It’s time to bring in the lawn chairs and wind chimes, time to draw the drapes against the wind, time to hunker down. Summer’s fruits are preserved in syrup, but nothing can stopper time. No way to seal it in wax or amber; it slides though our hands like a rope of silk. At night, the moon’s restless searchlight sweeps across the sky. ~Barbara Crooker “And Now it’s October” from Small Rain.
I do try to stopper time.
I try every day on this page, not to suspend time or render it frozen, but like flowers and fruit that wither, I want to preserve these moments – a few harvested words and pictures to sample some chilly day.
I offer it up to you now, a bit of fragrance, to sip of its sweetness as it glows, luminous in the bottle.
Let’s share. Leave it unstoppered. The passage of time is meant to be preserved this way.
Why should I have to deal with so-called human beings when I can be up on the roof hammering shingles harder than necessary,
driving the sharp nails down into the forehead of the house like words I failed earlier to say?
And when a few wasps eddy up from their hidden place beneath the eaves to zoom in angry agitation near my face
I just raise a canister of lethal spray and shoot them down without a thought. Don’t speak to me, please, about clarity and proportionate response.
The world is a can of contents under pressure; a human being should have a warning label on the side that says: Disorganized Narrative Inside; Beware of frequent sideways bursting
of one feeling through another —to stare into the tangled midst of which would make you as sick and dizzy as those wasps,
then leave you stranded on the roof on a beautiful day in autumn with a mouth full of nails,
trying to transplant pain by hammering down into a house full of echoes. ~Tony Hoagland “Wasp”
Two aerial tigers, Striped in ebony and gold And resonantly, savagely a-hum, Have lately come To my mailbox’s metal hold And thought With paper and with mud Therein to build Their insubstantial and their only home. Neither the sore displeasure Of the U. S. Mail Nor all my threats and warnings Will avail To turn them from their hummed devotions. And I think They know my strength, Can gauge The danger of their work: One blow could crush them And their nest; and I am not their friend. And yet they seem Too deeply and too fiercely occupied To bother to attend. Perhaps they sense I’ll never deal the blow, For, though I am not in nor of them, Still I think I know What it is like to live In an alien and gigantic universe, a stranger, Building the fragile citadels of love On the edge of danger. ~James L. Rosenberg “The Wasps’ Nest”
When will we ever learn?
This election season is unprecedented with plenty of verbal kicking of various hornets’ nests, some while resting in our literal laps.
We are surrounded on every side by anger and agitation, some of it coming from our own words and activities. Some of us feel like we are precariously balanced between family members and friends, hoping not to make things worse by saying what we believe, or choosing silence.
Rather than throwing stones or spraying poison at yet another wasp nest, I walk on by, acknowledging its fragile presence, but uninterested in joining its buzz.
As the walls of this seasonal fortress are tissue-paper thin, it won’t survive the winds and rains of the coming winter. There will always be attempts at rebuilding and still I will try to avoid the agitation.
I’m not in or of them. It’s a long time passing…
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At the alder-darkened brink Where the stream slows to a lucid jet I lean to the water, dinting its top with sweat, And see, before I can drink,
A startled inchling trout Of spotted near-transparency, Trawling a shadow solider than he. He swerves now, darting out
To where, in a flicked slew Of sparks and glittering silt, he weaves Through stream-bed rocks, disturbing foundered leaves, And butts then out of view
Beneath a sliding glass Crazed by the skimming of a brace Of burnished dragon-flies across its face, In which deep cloudlets pass
And a white precipice Of mirrored birch-trees plunges down Toward where the azures of the zenith drown. How shall I drink all this?
Joy’s trick is to supply Dry lips with what can cool and slake, Leaving them dumbstruck also with an ache Nothing can satisfy. ~Richard Wilbur “Hamlen Brook”
Like so many others right now, I’m thirsty for honest, respectful discussion and debate about the state of the world. Instead, I’m left dry and wanting, ready to blow away with the next gust.
So I ache to witness fading colors, fallen leaves, swift winds and pouring rain, as all creatures great and small prepare for winter’s chill. There is stark honesty among all soon to fall asleep.
I yearn to hear God’s Truth spoken out loud. How amazing it would be — to be dumbstruck with joy.
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And some time make the time to drive out west Into County Clare, along the Flaggy Shore, In September or October, when the wind And the light are working off each other So that the ocean on one side is wild With foam and glitter, and inland among stones The surface of a slate-grey lake is lit By the earthed lightning of a flock of swans, Their feathers roughed and ruffling, white on white, Their fully grown headstrong-looking heads Tucked or cresting or busy underwater. Useless to think you’ll park and capture it More thoroughly. You are neither here nor there, A hurry through which known and strange things pass As big soft buffetings come at the car sideways And catch the heart off guard and blow it open. ~Seamus Heaney “Postscript”
We too have visited Ireland, hoping to somehow capture enough to bring home with us.
How impossible to bottle up wind and rain blowing over an expanse of unending green. We didn’t need to bring it home because it felt like home.
The sea, the fields, the farms, the people, the music, the unexpected moment found over each rise and around every tight turn of narrow roads.
How can I tell you? What words are adequate? Let yourself be caught off guard, let the wind buffet you and blow you wide open.
And when light comes from nowhere I can see, when my soul is clothed in golden bandages, ribbons of grace, how can I tell you? Or even tell myself so I can write it down? No words are bright enough to catch those fingerprints of radiance that flicker on my wall. ~Luci Shaw from “I Say Light, Thinking”in Harvesting Fog
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Márgarét, áre you gríeving Over Goldengrove unleaving? Leáves like the things of man, you With your fresh thoughts care for, can you? Ah! ás the heart grows older It will come to such sights colder By and by, nor spare a sigh Though worlds of wanwood leafmeal lie; And yet you wíll weep and know why. Now no matter, child, the name: Sórrow’s spríngs áre the same. Nor mouth had, no nor mind, expressed What heart heard of, ghost guessed: It ís the blight man was born for, It is Margaret you mourn for. ~Gerard Manley Hopkins “Spring and Fall”
As the leaves tumble down, I think of Hopkins’ Márgarét and her vanishing goldengrove path, she who weeps for the loss of autumn leaves, not knowing or remembering they will return.
And I, now older, know spring comes again, even though wistful and sighing deeply at the loss of beauty and innocence each autumn, weeping for what was and may never be again.
In this blighted plight, I tend to forget the promise made: there is much more to come after the Fall.
My grief is not for nothing. Christ comforts those who weep, who mourn loss and wander lost.
I have hope and faith. I will see beauty again. I follow the goldengrove that leads to Him.
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The maple leaves abscond with summer’s green rain on such little stems connecting to spring’s essence, summer twigs’ foliage, the company of the living.
But now they shrug off their red-gold existence as if they’d never inhabited the verdure of the undead, drifting to a ground hardened by sudden frost. ~Donna Pucciani “One Minute”
I was standing lost, sunk, my hands in my pockets, gazing toward Tinker Mountain and feeling the earth reel down. All at once, I saw what looked like a Martian spaceship whirling towards me in the air. It flashed borrowed light like a propeller. Its forward motion greatly outran its fall. As I watched, transfixed, it rose, just before it would have touched a thistle, and hovered pirouetting in one spot, then twirled on and finally came to rest. I found it in the grass; it was a maple key…Hullo. I threw it into the wind and it flew off again, bristling with animate purpose, not like a thing dropped or windblown, pushed by the witless winds of convection currents hauling round the world’s rondure where they must, but like a creature muscled and vigorous, or a creature spread thin to that other wind, the wind of the spirit that bloweth where it listeth, lighting, and raising up, and easing down. O maple key, I thought, I must confess I thought, o welcome, cheers.
And the bell under my ribs rang a true note, a flourish of blended horns, clarion, sweet, and making a long dim sense I will try at length to explain. Flung is too harsh a word for the rush of the world. Blown is more like it, but blown by a generous, unending breath. That breath never ceases to kindle, exuberant, abandoned; frayed splinters spatter in every direction and burgeon into flame. And now when I sway to a fitful wind, alone and listing, I will think, maple key. When I see a photograph of earth from outer space, the planet so startlingly painterly and hung, I will think, maple key. When I shake your hand or meet your eyes, I will think two maple keys. If I am maple key falling, at least I can twirl. ~Annie Dillard from Pilgrim at Tinker Creek
If only there were living words as plentiful as the maple keys that twirl from each branch, words that release us from our dry roots, ready to unlock life’s secrets, unlatch and push ajar the doors to heavy hearts.
Who can ever be ready to go from vibrant and alive, colorful and mobile, to dropped and still?
The reality of another spent season is a slug to the gut. Time is passing. I’m wasting time. There is no stopping it without stopping me.
Let’s dwell in the company of the living until we fall away together.
Live well, fellow leaves and we’ll let go together: swaying to a fitful wind, giving a gentle shrug and drifting, easing into settling down when the time comes.
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Touch me like you do the foliage! ~Rae Armantrout “Conversations”
There is no season when such pleasant and sunny spots may be lighted on, and produce so pleasant an effect on the feelings, as now in October. The sunshine is peculiarly genial; and in sheltered places, as on the side of a bank, or of a barn or house, one becomes acquainted and friendly with the sunshine. It seems to be of a kindly and homely nature. ~Nathaniel Hawthorne from The American Notebooks: The Centenary Edition
Of course I reach out and touch a leaf lit like fire though cool on the surface, the flame for show only
I can only guess at what the world might be like for my grandchildren but I do know this: the leaves will turn fiery red in the fall before they die.
So much has changed since my grandmother stood on her porch and wiped away a tear at the sight of the reddening maples on the hillside.
And so much has not changed.
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