Prelude To Fall

We got a break from the heat this weekend! Blue skies prevailed. Clouds drifted by, light and feathery. It was the first time in a long while that people commented favorably on the weather.

I got the idea while sitting on the front steps with Grayson Saturday morning. I was just sitting there in blissful celebration of a cool morning. My son was between my knees exploring the brick steps with his tiny pink fingers. He discovered the stem of a dry leaf. He figured out how to lift and twirl it above his head. I found a similar one and, mimicking my son, ended with a gentle flourish that sent my leaf floating back to the ground. Well that did it. Grayson was hooked on the magic of leaves.

I decided we needed to retire to the front lawn to sit beneath the tuliptree from which those leaves had tumbled. It was there, for the next hour or so, that we laid in the shade on a cool cotton sheet littered with a local assortment of leaves,pine needles, and a twig or two. Grayson got his first hands-on experience with the prelude to fall. I got to recline and breath deeply as I spied the sky and tossed leaves up into the breeze. So here's a reminder for when the weather is just right: "Lie down and look up."

Swallowtail Summertime

For months now, in our part of North Carolina, a breath of fresh air has been rare as the heat and humidity snuffed it out. Midweek and midday finds me sweating through my office clothes as I go from car to building to car. The weekend arrives and pants become shorts, shoes become barefeet, and time spent in an office becomes time spent in the shade of a sycamore tree overhanging the Eno River.

Between the shady weekends, how is one to find relief?

This summer I have found inspiration by watching the butterflies. They whirl across an open sunny field in search of succulence. With awkward grace, they alight above the canopy, drying their delicate wings in the blaze of afternoon warmth. They are beautiful and full of life. But why do they spend so much time in this sun that we are trying to avoid? I'm sure science can convincingly explain the relationships between sun and butterfly. I'm sure we can guess many of those reasons correctly. But I'm going to offer a simple reason that I hope, rather than know, is true: Butterflies spend all this time in the sun because, as winged beings, time is short and they want a clear view of the world in which they live.

This summer I've seen more butterflies than times past. I don't know if it is me or them, but whatever the reason, I'm glad we've crossed paths so frequently. I'll admit I'm looking ahead to fall, but I'll fondly recall this swallowtail summertime, when stained glass heartbeats captured my attention, made my baby boy point and smile, and reminded me to embrace even the sun scorched moments.

Even While We Whisper

We had a view of the Chesapeake Bay for a whole weekend.
Sitting on the dock, you experience the weather moving over the Bay like you would feel the weather over an Oklahoma wheat field. Rain in the distance rolls in as an advancing fog. The wind pushes the water towards the land. Like horses running for the stables, the sailboats drop sail and briskly motor on home.

An expanse of water and land reward the keen eye with abounding treasures. A fluttering speck on the horizon, just at treeline, flies near to become a whistling Osprey carrying a fresh catch tight in his talons.
The still water bursts into a boil in the distance as a thrashing school of menhaden escape the current and swirl ahead of a gang of hungry striped bass. If you're paying attention, now is the time to cast your line and take advantage of the marine madness. The old slate heron watches from the shadows, slowly nodding approval.

The sun, moon, and sky preen in virtuous vanity above the reflective bay. We gather on the shore to admire their beauty. Even while we whisper our respects, our awe carries to the far shore. Our presence becomes part of the scene. May the Bay, in its benevolent way, forever stay.

While the Gulf Choked

i watched the suspect on camera,
i drove the getaway car,
i fumed at the news on the radio,
i felt guilty every day,
i cursed capitalism,
i hugged my son tight and feared for his future,
i sat in traffic,
i counted plastic,
i took out the trash,
i recycled,
i lived a life of luxury,
i searched for sacrifice,
i acknowledged my hypocrisies,
i remembered public school classes teaching that progress is good,
i envied the Amish,
i wasted energy while i saved my energy,
i wiped my eyes when i read the report of the kid who sent his lemonade-stand money to a Gulf Coast fisherman,
i remembered the Exxon Valdez,
i remembered Three Mile Island,
i remembered Kuwait, Saudi Arabia and Iraq,
i convinced myself "these things happen",
i thanked the trees, the clouds, and the sun,
i mourned the loss of life,
i was lucky to continue my life.

Getting Your Feet Dirty

If you felt the earth gently shake a couple weeks ago, let me comfort you with an explanation.

Our boy Grayson officially shook hands..er...feet with Mother Nature in an unpublicized and informal ceremony in the foothills of Pennsylvania beneath the sheltering branches of the hemlock and ash, within the stone circle where Heather and I were married.
He hadn't had much use for his feet up until then.

With a guiding hand, we lowered him to the earth. He stood tall and dug his toes deep into the dirt and duff, and smiled serenely. It was a moist and cool afternoon. We simply asked him and the earth to respect each other and work towards a healthy, long term relationship.

It takes some work you know. Many adults still haven't figured out this relationship. When we focus on ourselves it is easy to overlook the ones we depend on.

Depend on the earth. Get to know her. Even if it means getting your feet dirty (it usually washes off).

Hold on to the Ephemeral

Last year around this time, I found a butterfly-shaped green leaf cluster on the ground alongside the backyard creek. And then I found another nearby. The more I searched, the more I found. As it was early Spring I waited and watched for days, hoping to see what kind of flower this new find would produce. Those leaves kept getting bigger, but no flowers emerged. One cluster held a tiny pod I was sure held the ingredients for perfect petals. But nothing happened. An Internet search showed a picture of a pristine little white flower unfurling, with a caption that read, "One of the Spring Ephemerals." A couple clicks later I learned the meaning of ephemeral: short-lived; lasting only a day or so. Ah, so I had somehow missed the blooming of that mysterious plant called the Bloodroot.

My son turned three months old last week. Every week I see something new and exciting when I look into his eyes. I wonder sometimes how I can hold on to the ephemeral beauty I see before me. He is in this stage now that if he catches a glimpse of himself in the mirror he grins the most sincere grin I can imagine. I have been visiting the bathroom mirror a lot lately with him. I can't help it. I want to hold on to these moments, for I know they will pass. But of course some of them might return.

And so I returned to the creekside a little earlier this spring, before the green clustered leaves emerged. I watched for three weeks and finally last week I got my reward. The Bloodroots bloomed one cool morning and soaked up the afternoon sun. I was pleased to witness their day in the sun.

Enjoy What We Have

Last week we learned that one of our favorite local hiking trails, previously designated to be replaced by a highway bypass, is now going to be preserved as a natural area! We are relieved, perhaps selfishly, but none the less relieved.

Walking down the "Old Speedway" trails on a quiet afternoon, searching the ground for signs of early spring, is a natural tonic. Hearing nothing but the breeze through the trees or the faint laughter of exploring children is preservation of the soul. We are thankful.

The trail leads down to a bend in the Eno River beneath a large Beech tree. Here, another type of preservation is in progress. In this case, both the antagonist and victim is nature, for the Beech is a target of the beaver. Another player in this drama is the river itself, gnawing, year after year, flood after flood, at the soil and root upholding the big Beech. The humans are trying to help out here, with a wire beaver barrier wrapped around the tree trunk. It seems to be working. But the river is still doing its job. One day, I know the Beech will fall into the river and the beaver will get a nice surprise. Until then, we do what we can and enjoy what we have.

And so I think the same is true for "The Old Speedway Trails." For now, we do what we can and enjoy what we have. Remember to enjoy what we have!