Nature has been full of goodies and small agonies this week.
First, the colors:
Last week’s pale yellows have deepened to a golden ochre.
What was hinting at salmon has now morphed into full-on crimson.
The sky at sunrise and sunset has shifted from gray to dark ash to baby pink, from faintly-tinged with ecru to bold orange or apple-red, from light blue to inky blue or lavender to coal.
Then, the birds:
This morning was a flicker-o-rama; those colorful woodpeckers darted from fence rail to rooftop, eaves to grass to branch to gone.
One lovely little sparrow hit the window a few days ago and slowly slid to the steps below; I carefully scooped him up and admired that beautiful avian body as he caught his breath. I felt the small but solid weight of him in my palms and then rejoiced when he finally hopped underneath my lilies to shelter there until he found the stamina to fly off (with the verbal encouragements of another nearby sparrow).
Also, the flora:
The tree I’ve named Redcedar is not Thuja plicata after all, and I’m embarrassed by the months of mistaken identity. I have since attempted to properly rename her, or to hear her response to my request to continue calling her by this misnomer; I’m still waiting. I am not embarrassed, though, by my ongoing love, hugs, tenderness, and affection for her, nor by my ascription of sacred to her very essence.
Mushrooms of all shapes and sizes are fruiting in congregations all over the forest floor, along fallen logs, in crevices, and out in the shameless open.
Ten weeks later than last year, but perfectly synched with the two-year anniversary of our mom’s passing this week, a memorial-service-orchid has quite suddenly burst into white and magenta bloom.
Next, the wildlife:
A coyote saunters through our yard frequently. His recent pattern has him skirting the western edge midmorning. In the middle of a 10:30 AM group call yesterday, I swung my computer screen out toward the yard in an effort to share him with my comrades.
That black bear has left some scat on the driveway this week; she also placed one perfect paw in the bark-and-mud underneath some bushes about twenty feet from the front door—claw prints and footpad were clearly definable. She’s conned me into resuming my nose-to-glass search pose at the door in the dark of night and predawn.
Finally, the weather:
In another group call this morning, some folks in Seattle reported dark, cloudy skies; I sat just a short ferry ride west of them but enjoyed mostly clear skies and shimmering sunlight.
The rains have come. And gone. And arrived again. One day this week the thunder claps that sent my cat hiding for cover under the bed were also audible in California and Ohio via the Zoom connection I was on.
This moment is quite still; trees are not moving but the bushy, white-edged clouds overhead are softly shifting.
On some other day this week, the wind roared, leaving tree parts scattered along roads. The next day, I gathered one yellow-leafed bough that the wind had torn from our little vine maple and made it a decoration for my deck; there is no waste in nature.
Autumn is such a compelling time of change and transformation.
It is absolutely worth it to commit to nature anew:
intend to notice shapes, colors, creatures, temperatures;
commit to spending some daily moments savoring whatever is present out there;
realize anew each day the very fire in the belly that spurs passionate renewal in the world…
