Walking to the garage after work yesterday, this November child revelled in the colors.

Just as in the spring when only for a little while does the green shine in new-ness, the orange hues of the maple  cried out in a blaze of glory.  The wet ground and soaked sidewalks, the gray skies and dreary day in general were the perfect backdrop to illuminate the radiance.

I loved it.  For a moment I felt I could be in New England or even in England; I could be in any time period.  Truly, it felt timeless.  Yet the very nature of the colors speak to the inevitability of time passing, the certainty of change.

This moment, though, I inhale, taking it all in, and exhale, letting it all go, hoping that in doing so I not only let go of that which I love and want to cling to but also release that which does not bring me joy and weighs on my heart and mind.  Yes, we can be attached to the negative, too.

As certain as change is, I’m reminded that I will see these colors again.  The exact pattern of the fallen leaves may change.  The trees I gaze upon may be different, but the autumn will return.  Such is life.

Within a week, I had the pleasure of listening not only to one but two truly inspirational African American women.  This doesn’t even come close to expressing my gratitude for what they bring to our collective lives, but it’s something.

O, Woman

O, Black Woman,

teach me your ways.

Your sing-song voice that

carried over the ocean

and through the years;

Hum now your heart,

released through your

Hands the power of the Almighty.

Bishop, your laugh;

O, to hear your song.

Yes, Sister.

You’ve walked miles I’ll

never know,

but the Disciple’s path

we’ll share.

We’ll journey on.

I feel your heart.

I know your song.

Ms. Giovanni, look this way again.

Your eyes a-twinklin’,

Your mouth a fountain

of Joy, of Truth.

I know what you’re sayin’.

The grandmother I long to be.

Respect embodied.

No time for bullshit.

Love is too important.

The Wise Woman in me

Sees,

Knows,

Loves,

Recognizes

herself in You.

Hallelujah!

Perhaps it should be “getting older.”  To say something or someone is “growing” suggests to me an upward movement or a progression in a positive direction.  In my experience with grandparents and acquaintances, when they speak of aging, they say “Getting old,” and they usually conclude with, “isn’t fun” or “isn’t what they thought it would be.”

This winter, I’ve felt older.  I love drinking my coffee or tea and watching the snow fall outside, blanketing everything in stillness and cold.  I put on another layer to keep myself warm.  Before the kids ask if they can go outside, I’ve heard them plotting their course of action, developing their snowy agenda.  Their enthusiasm builds into a palpable energy, and with it my anger begins to rise.  No, I don’t want them to go outside.  They’ll be out there for 5, maybe 10, minutes and will come in, disrobe, and leave me with two extra loads of laundry to do after I’ve made them a hot cup of cocoa.

I feel older because I had to convince myself to let them play outside.  I might have told them “no” at first, but I did let them go out; I even helped them pile on the layers that I knew would be left for me to clean up later.  This is their youth, after all.  I did the same when I was younger.  Now I’ll just have to be perfectly content with the cup of coffee and the pending laundry.  At least I have the young children still around to remind me of what it’s like to be young.  They share their vibrant energy with me.  They wouldn’t mind if I came out to play with them.  I could let go of my anger and frustration and let myself enjoy the moment.

It’s okay.  I’ll get older with acceptance.  Each day I’ll understand a little better what my foremothers experienced.  Maybe I’ll be able to equip my children for what’s to come.  As far as I can tell, though, the only way I can do that is to help them be aware and to choose to experience this moment without judgement.  It’s neither good nor bad; it just is.

Our responsibilities change with time.  Our frame of reference changes.  Our whole life circumstances can turn in a moment.  Whether we’re 3, 33, or 93, we still are who we are.

Time is such a funny thing.

Denial.  Longing.  Wonder.  Sadness.  Hope.

In the span of a few hours, these are some of the feelings or emotions or thoughts streaming through my consciousness.  As the daylight decreases, nature tells me not-so-subtly that now is the time to be serious about what I am going to lay fallow this winter.

Mainly I cannot believe fall is nearly complete. Some of the trees still haven’t dropped their leaves. It seems last week the ginkos finally decided to go ahead and let go, but there are still some maples ablaze. This week is Thanksgiving.  I haven’t yet put Halloween in the attic, and I haven’t done our grocery shopping . . . or even made a menu/list.  I’m already seeing Christmas lights.

I long for what I can’t have right now. Leisurely time to cook, to plan, to watch the kids think and grow, to create, to write, to daydream out the window into the dazzling autumn light or through the heavy gray. I yearn to take back all that I’ve taken for granted in the past year.  I long to be.  I’d also like to do everything better.  I’d like to do and get done that which needs to be done.

Yet I’m amazed at all that has passed, all the blessings we have. I cannot fathom the significance of all that is and is to come, and I wonder at how all these pieces will fall into place. There is so much Mystery. . .

. . . and so much suffering. I can’t help sometimes from letting it creep up on me, dwelling on it a bit too long. Whether it be personal, trivial dis-ease or greater, universal suffering, it can catch me off-guard and sit heavy on my heart. This must be carefully tended in these winter months.

As the song and sound of the children’s choir rings gently and beautifully in my mind, I sense the hope that Light brings and feel the cycle moving onward, forward, bringing me with it. Light and shadow and ever-present hope through faith. Unexplainable, really. Beyond words. Now is a time to live into the experience and learn as much as possible. My teachers are everywhere. I kiss them good-night. I listen to their stories. I wonder at them and with them. I laugh. I cry. Always, though, I am learning and growing.

The leaves are falling.
The roots run deep in my soul.
What will spring reveal?

With the ceiling fan on and what feels like an open window, I seek the warmth of a blanket.  It’s time to bring out my wool shawl.

I had the immense pleasure this weekend of retreating in the woods, an annual event now during a weekend when the ground rumbles with the vibration of thousands of motorcycles.  Actually, even in the wooded hills, we could hear the rumble on our hike.  At six o’clock in the morning, though, a couple of us sat on the porch in the rockers, listening for owls in the trees.  The ground was still.  The small throw I had was just big enough to cover my arms, and when we went inside to make breakfast, I could feel the morning chill on my cheeks and hands.  It was time for a fire.  Our morning prayer sounded out, accompanied by the crackle and warmth emitting from the hearth.

That afternoon, I brought my knitting to the parlor room and sat by the dark fireplace.  With door open, the fresh breeze was cool and refreshing.  After knitting and napping a bit, the sun dipped below the trees, and a chill returned.  An hour later, I built a fire, awakening the room with comfort and warmth.  A room in which to share good conversation . . . and more knitting.

Autumn is a season of lamplight and glows from fires, gentle chills removed by an extra layer.  Extraordinary sunlight and brilliant blue skies and days so gray to test your memory and resolve.  There’s the brilliant burst of energy and color, if we are so lucky and conditions are just right.  Then there’s the falling away.  More gray than color.  More darkness.  An expected death.  Quiet.  Freeze.

In Autumn, life is still easy and the harvest abundant.  The colors truly are amazing.  We have to enjoy it while it lasts, for this, too, shall pass.

After over a week away from Facebook, I couldn’t resist, half-way through my sweet potato, to pull out my phone and visit my profile, updating my status,checking on a few friends, commenting and like-ing here and there.

But look around.  Pull away from the electronics.

Green trees, established in the landscape, surviving this summer dry spell.  Speckles of purple from the waning crepe myrtles.  Students actually enjoying the sun on this cooler day, sweet relief from the suffocating heat and humidity.  Feel that wonderful breeze.  Listen to the fountain.

The fountain.

I don’t think “peace” when I look at this fountain.  (You can view it, too, if you do an image search on Google for “Fulbright Peace Fountain.”)  Perhaps it’s because I only see it from this perspective.  From the distance, maybe even from above, it looks different.  I should probably look at it by night in person, lit and shadow-cast.  Right now I just see masculine spire, but I admit my architectural knowledge is limited, at best.  I’ll have to read more about the inspiration for the design.  I’m sure there’s a story there.

I have much to learn.