Solar Eclipse

 There was a solar eclipse today. I was hoping to catch a glimpse of it. Gary stopped by our local library to pick up a couple pairs of the special glasses they offered to community members through which to safely watch the sun slip behind the moon's shadow. I tried them on, and even went outside to see how effective they were, but it was so cloudy that no light at all got through the safety lenses. "Oh well," I sighed. "Guess we are not going to be able to see anything this time around."

When we went on a walk in the early afternoon, it was pretty dark, and I did think for a moment that maybe that was the effect of the eclipse. But the clouds were thick, so I thought it could also just be one of those gloomy, cloudy fall days. There were hardly any sounds at all, and very little movement. Even the chipmunks and squirrels seemed to be hiding, despite the fact that it was still early afternoon and the temperature was pretty comfortable for small creatures to be running around in. "Hmm, I guess autumn is really starting to settle in. The birds aren't even singing," I said to Gary. It was quiet as we made our way up the road, and, honestly, it felt kind of depressing.

When I returned home, I busied myself around the house for a while, getting food ready for supper, sorting through some mail and answering texts from my daughters. 

A little while later, I made my way outside again and had to stop in my tracks in wonder. What a difference! Even though it was only the tiniest bit brighter than it had been when we were on our earlier walk, we were surrounded by a literal cacophony of sound. Every variety of bird seemed to be singing and chattering up a storm. Chipmunks were running back and forth along the rock wall. It was a remarkable contrast to the rather somber mood of the natural world just a short hour before. The world was exploding with life, with sound and movement.

I was struck by the fact that the entire natural world seemed to have experienced the eclipse and responded to it instinctually. They laid low when the unnatural darkness fell over the earth, staying quiet and out of sight, but as soon as the light started to return, they went about their activities again with a renewed burst of energy and, dare I say, enthusiasm.

We may not have been able to see the eclipse today, but we sure heard it and felt it in our bones - us humans and all the earth's creatures too, it seemed. It was awesome to feel so intricately connected to the natural world by sharing in the eclipse with the birds and chipmunks and the other creatures who noticed that today was different from other days. There is something inside of each of us, that longs to be woven into the tapestry of life, to be a part of the larger whole. Today, I felt the pull of those threads.

A Pilgrimage to the Familiar

 

Every September for the past several years, Gary and I, along with our good friends, Meredith and Ray, make our way to Monhegan Island in Maine. It is a place that I have written about before. Ten miles off the shore, Monhegan is an island inhabited by artists and writers in the summer months, some of whom fell in love with the island long ago and some, like me, who are relative newcomers. 

During the colder months the population dwindles down to about 45, the town water supply is shut off to protect pipes from freezing, most business shut down or depend on the honor system. I have tried to imagine what it might be like to spend a winter there, hunkered down in a cozy cottage to focus on my writing. I wonder if I have what it takes to make it through the isolation and the cold. Would my fascination hold? I like to think so, and maybe some day Gary and I will try it out.

For now, we limit our visits to the "shoulder seasons" of June and September when the island is a bit less populated by day trippers and tourists. (Yes, I know I am technically a tourist too, but loving and spending time on Monhegan when she is a little less hospitable feels like it might win me some small concession in that department.) Remembering to bring my down coat in June, climbing into a full set of rain gear to walk out to the edge of Lobster cove's rocks in a storm, singing at a Jamboree lit by kerosene lights as the evening cools, are all gifts of this time of year.

September is beautiful there. Purple and yellow-gold flowers are in bloom. Migratory birds can be prolific, as can be the butterflies. Sunsets are amazing, and there is nothing like exhausting yourself out on the trails all day before coming back to the cottage to toast the sunset on the porch before settling in for a good meal and a cozy evening with friends.

As I prepared for this latest trip to Monhegan, a friend suggested that I consider it as a pilgrimage. The idea intrigued me. I thought it might deepen my experience in ways that simply showing up for a vacation would not. And so, I brought my journal along and committed to write in it every day. Most days I sketched as well, despite the fact that I really have no talent for that kind of art. ("I am an artist with words" I like to assert, "but not so much with any other methods.")

It felt like my time on Monhegan did go deeper in response to seeing it as a pilgrimage. I was less concerned with doing things and more content to simply be. It felt good to show up for each new day with an open mind, willing to let it unfold as it would. I found myself trusting that whatever happened, wherever I wandered, and whatever I did, would be just what the moment called for, and for the most part this is exactly how it felt. 

Coming home is always a melancholic experience. Leaving behind such a special place and such a golden time is not easy, but somehow when I left this time I felt more prepared for the re-entry back into my everyday life. It felt like I had gleaned what I needed to from my pilgrimage, and would be returning home a little more centered for the effort.

Thanksgiving

Ten of us descended on my sister and brother-in-law's home for Thanksgiving this year. Sue's friends offered her sympathy when they heard this, commenting, "Oh, wow! You must be so stressed! That's a lot of people to cook for!" She responded saying, "no, I am not stressed at all. Everyone will pitch in. We will each do a little bit, so no one should have to stress." 

When she recounted her conversations to me I have to admit that I felt pretty blessed to know that Sue was right about our family. Everyone does help out, each in their own way whether that is with a special dish that they enjoy making (or eating), or in keeping the kitchen clean, or running out for milk at the last minute. 

Often Thanksgiving, or any large holiday meal for that matter, can take hours to prepare for, but only a brief flash of time to actually enjoy. I felt so grateful that when we sat around the table together we took our time. There was a lot of laughter. Stories were shared, and thoughts as well, about what we were grateful for. We reflected on past holidays when grandparents were still with us. In quieter moments, perhaps between two or three of us, we opened up about what was going on in our lives back home. We spoke of challenges and disappointments as well as accomplishments and joys. 

Although some of the memories shared brought a touch of sadness, the main feeling that permeated our gathering was a deep sense of appreciation and gratitude. No matter how difficult life can be, it is good to know that there are people who love you. There are people who have your back and who want the best for you. I left feeling very grateful, indeed.

Close Up & Big Picture Living

 

Gary and his sister Elizabeth are both artists. He is a poet and she is a potter, but they share the uncanny knack of seeing the world itself as art. When we walked in the woods the other day, they took turns pointing out designs in the bark of trees, patterns in the leaves on the forest floor and the intricacies of brightly colored lichens and mosses. For a seemingly gloomy day in between rain showers, they found plenty to see and plenty that delighted their observant eyes. 

I reflected back on our walk today, when I was feeling frustrated by the big picture problems in the world. I don't think I have to recount them for you, you probably have plenty of things that weigh you down without my adding to them. Reading the headlines in the New York Times is probably not a good way to start off my day with a spirit of gratitude or joy, but I do it anyway because I want to be a responsible citizen. I want to know what is happening in the world. The problem is, that if I let myself primarily focus on all that is wrong in the world, it becomes difficult to feel good about anything else. The big picture of bad news can overwhelm any sense of pleasure we might otherwise find in our everyday lives.

This is where Elizabeth and Gary's approach to a walk and to life comes in, though. If we take a mental break from the big picture of the world at large and turn our attention to some small, beautiful aspect of the present moment, it puts us in a better place to cope with the challenges life may bring. The small, beautiful thing we choose to pay attention to could be something no one else would ever notice like the interplay between dark and light on the bark of a pine tree. It could be something personally significant such as a sweet interaction with someone you love. It could be anything that gives your heart a little kick of joy. It does not have to make sense to anyone but you. You will know if it is working for you by how it makes you feel.

Our walk was nearing the end when Gary came to me and stretched out his hand. "Touch this" he said with something like awe in his voice, "it's so soft!" We gathered around and took turns touching the light as a feather clump of lichen or mosses in his hand, agreeing, "wow. It really is soft, and it is so light." 

As we made our way back to the house I felt lighter too. The gloominess of the day, the heaviness of an imperfect world were somehow counter balanced by the tiny beautiful gifts of our walk in the woods.

In Situ

When the sun came out after a cloudy morning, I decided to take a walk. I love to feel the winds blowing and watch the leaves float through the skies. As I walked a variety of leaves of all colors and conditions caught my attention. Some drifted down to the dirt road, while others caught along the side of the road, landing on piles of their older neighbors. The phrase "in situ" came to me. It means "situated in the original place". 

I thought it would be interesting to take pictures of the leaves exactly where they fell, even if that meant a background of dirt and rocks or decaying brown vegetation. I found it meditative to walk along noticing but not moving anything as I recorded the truth of what was. Often the sunlight cast interesting shadows and patterns of light on the leaves, or the wind blew offering a new perspective in the moment.

As usual, what was going on outside of me caused me to reflect on my interior workings as well. How do I fit into my surroundings? What kind of contrasts do the colors, light and shadow create around me and within me? What does "in situ" mean for me as I feel my way into the next phase of my life? I don't have answers, although I enjoy writing as a way to explore thought-provoking questions. And maybe it is like the leaves I photographed today. Maybe each background against which we find ourselves offers a new perspective? Maybe there is something I can glean from each place in which I find myself, whether that's walking along the road, on my couch with a cat on my lap as I meditate, kneeling in the garden planting garlic, driving to town with NPR on the radio or sitting with the sun on my shoulder as I type out some thoughts?

 

End of Summer

This time of year brings me mixed feelings. I love the colorful autumn leaves - the orange and red maples that pepper the woods and line the meadow, and the yellow beeches that create a golden tunnel over and alongside the dirt road that leads to my home. It is truly breath-taking to be immersed in this cacophony of color, and I make a point of noticing, of taking it in whenever I can, often stopping along the roadside to snap a picture. But along with the colorful beauty, colder temperatures make it less and less comfortable to sit outside in the morning while I sip my tea and read. Today, there has been a steady cold rain that makes me think twice about going out for my daily walk.

Very soon, I will be indoors for the vast majority of the day rather than breezily moving between indoors and out with little thought. Before that happens though, we will extend the life of our vegetable garden and the flowers for a while longer. Before the sun sets on these cold nights, Gary and I drag old sheets and tarps down to the garden to cover the squash, peppers and tomatoes, hoping to get a few more weeks of fresh veggies before we have to let them go.

I am torn, considering the choice between being fully present in this moment, taking in the beauty that is here now, or trying to preserve what I can for the cold winter months. This morning, for instance, has been taken up with making applesauce with a heavy concentration of wild grapes thrown into the mix for extra flavor and a burst of rich, purple color. It will be so nice to open those jars in the midst of winter, when a taste of this season will be even more welcome than the samples I tasted today.

We can put some food by for the colder months, freezing the garden produce, drying herbs and canning this beautiful purple sauce, but we can't preserve the flowers and the colorful leaves, except in our mind's eye or with a camera. We all know that pictures really are not the same as being able to take in the full glory of a favorite flower in full bloom or the hills of Vermont at the peak of autumn. Knowing this can bring a bit of melancholy even to the most optimistic among us.

This gorgeous hydrangea bloomed for us recently. Fittingly enough, its varietal name is End of Summer. (Or is it Endless Summer, which is a whole different story and a whole different blog?) I don't really need another reminder that summer is over, but as reminders go, it is a beautiful one that I make sure to notice and appreciate every day. Speaking of which, it's about time I brought myself outside to take another look.