A yellow green leaf dances down the wind current to land softly on the browning grasses of my wetland. The blue heron still checks out the buffet under the pond surface from time to time — the puddle that has been left in place for the migrations of avian species now flying towards warmer climates. Canada Geese. Mallard Ducks. Other years, beaver activity works these waters into a four acre mammal playground and community. They are not here now, and the waters have slowly receded back into sparsity. The Fall sun drifts it's shadows amongst swaying cattails along the water's edges and stream waters flow along their familiar channels.
Is this how it is?
The leaf, now having landed in the current, travels downstream and away forever from the home-tree.
I come up for air now, after having hit the ground running, my head filled with finding my place amongst the rushes. But, with heart still nostalgic for the magic of that thin veil between myself and the mysteries of the road.
J.F. and I drive into the hunt for wild mushrooms, and celebrate the lingering bouquet of rustling leaves. Honey mushrooms, Chicken of the Woods....
J.F. and I drive into the hunt for wild mushrooms, and celebrate the lingering bouquet of rustling leaves. Honey mushrooms, Chicken of the Woods....
We love our candidate!
I watch the fireworks show of Fall Foliage here in New England, the spectacle of life shifting through it's annual cycle: death, decay, rest, readying for the rebirth of life again. This is the Northeastern way in the Fall— like squirrels, we build and reinforce our winter nests. Firewood. Insulation. Leaf raking. Food harvesting. I have secured my winter needs — four cords of firewood, a strong young man to shovel my shop roof after larger snowstorms, and a check-in with my usual snowplowing contractor. I still need to head up the road to shovel town sand into five gallon buckets for sanding my driveway hill during icy conditions. This is October still. All is on course.
I reach out to touch the remembered connections with friends, and N. comes up from Massachusetts to scoop me up for a weekend of backcountry camping and Mt. Mansfield hiking. Chillier nights than here have arrived in northern Vermont, so we prepare snuggly sleeping bag arrangements and hot cooked foods.
The trail up is still snow free, but frost lingers on the tree tips to remind us of predicted views not so far off in the future. Thin ice covers shady rock paths, and sun warmed liquid oozes under the glassy surface for a nature show. Icicles hang under drippy moss covered rock outcroppings and we step carefully along the slippery paths.
Tree root pavilions,
Guardians of fern fronds that hug
moss covered granite
Tree root pavilions,
Guardians of fern fronds that hug
moss covered granite
Life seems always to juxtapose what is leaving and what is coming to be. Golds, reds, greens against the stark frost. I'm excited to check off another peak on my New England Hundred Highest hikes list. Only 38 more to go.........
I walk the "Loop" that meanders through the rolling green farm hills of my neighborhood area with L. and we share travel stories about the wonders and connections on the other side of the thin veil. But, this life here is filled with the depths of grounded relationships, and we agree that both experiences have their grace. We see two other women walking the Loop in the other direction and we stop to chat for a minute. We run into people we know, and this is how it is around a small town. J. and I quickly exchange information about major shifts in our lives and agree to get together for more exploration. L. and I walk on. This is the life of non-transience. This is the stream running through the set channel rather than the leaf carried on the wind. This is the home-tree.