Come down to the back patio,” my neighbor Debbie texts.
“30 minutes,” I reply. “Am on the phone.”
“I’ll wait,” she types back. “Important.”
I finish chatting with my son and walk out the kitchen door. Although it’s only four, the sun is low and the day feels all but over. The trees are dappling, as if dappling is what the trees are here to do. For the first time, I see a scattering of leaves on the ground, portent of the carpet to come.
Ferns that were lush and green on Saturday morning have turned to bronze by this Monday afternoon. The air, though warm and still, seems to breathe the end of summer, each breeze an exhalation of endings. There’s no single word to describe my feelings on this first day of fall, a sense of loss tangled with gratitude, of sadness stirred with wonder, awareness, longing, hope.
Although my friend is waiting for me, I pause in the garden to look around. I’ve been gone only two days yet everything seems different — softer, quieter, the urgency of growing and blooming slowed now in the golden light of an autumn afternoon. A monarch flutters past, landing on a swaying spire of purple-top verbena. Suddenly I realize the air is alive with butterflies, wobbling silently amongst the flowers with their delicate stained-glass wings, touching briefly down on zinnias, sedum, and their beloved verbena, drinking deeply from each chosen blossom as if offering benedictions.
Always at this time of year, as the days grow shorter and the heart-shaped morning glory leaves collapse upon themselves, my own heart grows heavy with the weight of memory. Two dear friends began their slow exits from the world in Septembers past, as if the change of seasons was the cue their own bodies had been waiting for. Come September, I remember the bittersweet final days I spent with each of them, how each in her own quiet, determined way undertook the work of letting go, allowing life to give way inexorably to death.
Now, here, older than either of them ever were, I think of all they’ve missed. And, too, I marvel at the way life goes on. I did not suspect, twenty autumns ago as Lisa and I ran together, panting and talking and laughing as we urged each other to push for one more mile, that I would grow old without her. I couldn’t have imagined, as Diane and Carol and I planned the menu for a festive Harvest Dinner one long-ago September afternoon, that our threesome would become two, or that in 2019, nine years after her death, Carol and I would carry on our friend’s legacy by rising in the dark on a fall Sunday to join a dedicated group of fellow walkers on the Jimmy Fund Marathon to raise money for ovarian cancer research.
As we stood side by side on Diane’s front porch after the walk Sunday afternoon, surrounded by friends and family, champagne glasses raised in remembrance of our friend, I was struck by both the sadness and the rightness of things. Life goes on.
And I am humbled by all of it. Perhaps growing up, growing old, even growing wise simply means finally, fully appreciating the miracle of being here. Maybe it also means recognizing, at last, that the vast, eternal rhythms at work in the world are holy, mysterious, and forever beyond my own limited understanding.
How to explain the alchemy by which a flat, tan seed tucked into the dirt last spring can produce by September half a dozen miniature butternut squash hidden under veiny, dinner-plates sized leaves? (I crouch to do my daily head-count, as if checking on a litter of kittens, and there they are, their perfect, tawny skins as smooth as silk.)
How to account for the miracle by which the nasturtium vine, product of its own shriveled seed, rambles now, sprawling with blossoms, across twenty feet of stone wall?
What can I do but bow my head before the height of a sun-flower, or offer prayers of thanks for the taste of a peach?
And isn’t it my own foolish loss if I fail to gaze in awe at the many-petaled zinnia, the industry of the bee, the color of the leaf at my feet?
As a child, I took all this for granted, as if the world existed for my use and pleasure. Now, a week shy of sixty-one, the existence of every living thing fills me with amazement.
Last fall, Debbie and I scattered hundreds of milkweed seeds in the part of the field we’ve begun to leave unmowed. Over the last few years, left mostly to its own devices and with just a little help from us, this tangled patch has slowly transformed itself into a wild mix of goldenrod, Queen Anne’s lace, and black-eyed Susans, all exuberantly self-sowing and threading themselves through the grasses. The milkweed took root and grew and thrived. The first monarch appeared in June, surprising us with its early arrival. And then at dusk one night a few weeks later we stood and watched as an army of striped caterpillars hungrily feasted on milkweed leaves.
When my two sons were little, a September afternoon meant butterflies to watch. Just twenty years ago there were estimated to be over a billion monarchs in North America alone. Now, thanks to Round-Up, the loss of habitat, the effects of climate change on their wintering grounds in Mexico, and the disappearance of milkweed from the roadsides and fields of the land, the butterflies are at risk of extinction. Scientists estimate a population slashed to 93 million, with most of those survivors in the Northeast. It’s a small thing we’re doing here, growing milkweed for the monarchs, but there’s nothing that’s given us more joy this summer than seeing the success of our crop and the return of the butterflies. Plant milkweed, it seems, and they will come – at least for this year.
There’s much in this world beyond my ken and out of my control. The devastating reports arrive weekly it seems — the loss of birds, of bees, the damage to the oceans, the Trump administration’s aggressive roll-back of environmental protections that have been in place for years. And I’ve given in often of late to feelings of helplessness, grief, and anger. But it is also in our human nature to lean toward hope. And so, as I pay ever closer attention to subtle changes in my own backyard, I remind myself to also keep watch for goodness. It exists.
On this unseasonably warm first day of fall, 2019, a sixteen-year-old girl eloquently addressed the United Nations’ Climate Action Summit, demanding that world leaders begin to deal with climate change as the emergency we and they all know it to be.
On this first day of fall, the chorus of voices insisting that our morally corrupt president be impeached grew stronger and louder.
On this first day of fall, Team Diane in its ninth year added up our funds and donated over $28,000 to Dr. Ursula Matulonis and her crew of researchers at Dana Farber.
On this first day of fall, my son Henry, who has been struggling in his first year of college teaching, called to report that he’d had a pretty good day.
On this first day of fall, I am standing in my garden as the sun goes down, remembering dear friends who are gone and counting monarch butterflies. There are six, nine, more.
At last, a little late, I make my way down to the back patio where Debbie has been waiting for me.
“Sit down,” she instructs, “and tell me what you see.”
I see a bluebird perching on the birdhouse, a flock of sparrows lifting and settling in the tall grass, a hawk floating on a current far above our heads, the mountains turning violet in the reflected light of dusk.
“Look closer,” Debbie says, and I do.
There, right in front of my chair, dangling from the rim of our metal fire pit, is a tiny celadon chrysalis, perfect as a jewel. On this first day of fall, life goes on. Blessed are we.
ONE OR TWO THINGS”
1
Don’t bother me.
I’ve just
been born.
2
The butterfly’s loping flight
carries it through the country of the leaves
delicately, and well enough to get it
where it wants to go, wherever that is, stopping
here and there to fuzzle the damp throats
of flowers and the black mud; up
and down it swings, frenzied and aimless; and sometimes
for long delicious moments it is perfectly
lazy, riding motionless in the breeze on the soft stalk
of some ordinary flower.
3
The god of dirt came up to me many times and said
so many wise and delectable things, I lay
on the grass listening
to his dog voice,
crow voice,
frog voice; now,
he said, and now,
and never once mentioned forever,
4
which has nevertheless always been,
like a sharp iron hoof,
at the center of my mind.
5
One or two things are all you need
to travel over the blue pond, over the deep
roughage of the trees and through the stiff
flowers of lightning– some deep
memory of pleasure, some cutting
knowledge of pain.
6
But to lift the hoof!
For that you need an idea.
7
For years and years I struggled
just to love my life. And then
the butterfly
rose, weightless, in the wind.
“Don’t love your life
too much,” it said,
and vanished into the world.
~ Mary Oliver from New and Selected Poems: Volume One
This post is everything I needed today… Thank you, my dear friend, for this gift. xxx
Agreed. Perspective and beauty and connection. Thank you.
Well what a joyful discovery of your website today on a wet June UK Hampshire day. At nearly 61 i feel as if i stumbled into a treasure box. Your gift is the present, Katrina. Iwill try to unwrap it with more care.
Thankyou so much
It is so good to hear from you. I agree that our environment has been under attack from Climate Deniers and that Nature has been sorely affected by many deterrents, including weather, pesticides, and drawbacks of restrictions put into effect to help. Fall is a glorious time. The colors of Nature put on a magnificent show. Your photos are exquisite. Thank you for your beautiful article. We so appreciate it.
Beautiful as always. Reading this has been a wonderful way to start my day. Thank you.
How I have missed your words, Katrina! Your heart is a gift. And your reflections continue to pierce through all that is superfluous in order to illuminate what is truly essential. Your writing leaves me more present and awake to the experience of being alive. Right here. Right now. I am so grateful you are alive–sharing all that you are with us. Our charge is to hold it all, I suppose. The loss. Despair. Hope. Wise action. Empathy. Mystery. I appreciate how you show us how to do this. Thank you.
Beautiful. Heartfelt. Inspirational
How excited I was to see your post on my FB feed while on my lunch hour. Your words calm my soul and give me hope knowing I have found a kindred spirit in you. We are the same age and share the same ideals. Thank you for your message today and always.
Thank you for these perfect words on my favorite season. As always, you reach right into my heart with your beautiful words.
Thank you for your lovely words because they always touch my heart in a special way.
Beautiful words to match your beautiful photos.
Thank you❣️🙏
Ahhhh to see this now after a weary day just brought such life, peace and resounding joy.. thank you dear friend for sharing your heart!
So lovely to read your beautiful words! Thank you for sharing and noticing the beauty in everything, and the beginnings and endings. In the southwest we are just entering “spring”, but I too remember the turning to fall in the northwest, every season has it’s beauty. And Happy Birthday!! Celebrate every year!
Beautiful. Beautiful. Beautiful. I have been a fan, and I’ve missed you. Thank you.
Thank you! Your spirit is evident. I’m glad you shared it! You inspire me – and that’s a gift that is a ripple of you being you! Namo (I bow)
So happy to read your post today. I’ve missed your beautiful writing!
My heart just took a big leap as I spotted your post! And oh, I was so in awe as I read your amazing words…..like poetry they are! You just seem to spot~on share what I am thinking and feeling…….from the varied emotions, the joy over the incredible nature we are blessed to have surround us, the fears, the universal thoughts we ALL have (but I think it is just you and me!), the “miraculous” surprise of the chrysalis and the real~ness of your words. Thank you, from all of us, for what you share……….knowing we are not alone.
I saved your blog to read tonight with a glass of wine. Your evocation of fall and all you notice brought tears to my eyes. Keep writing! xoxo
Your writing is beautiful – it is exactly what I needed to read right now. It’s wonderful to get this in my inbox today. Thank you…
A BEAUTIFUL and thoughtful ode to fall and all that is lost and gone and all that lives on. And a poignant look at life and death, the sorrows and joys always sitting side by side. Heartbreaking and beautiful!
I love your posts! I was thinking of you last week and realized how much I have missed your inspiring words. And then, there you were on my fb page. Your words speak to my heart in so many beautiful ways. Thank you.
Katrina you feel like an old friend. I love all that you share and am so comforted to hear a voice that resonates with my passion for the natural world. Thank you for your sharing your gifts and know you are a positive presence in our world!
Such a beautifully crafted glimpse into my own soul. One of my favorite things is when someone shares their heart and I recognize my own in their words. Lovely. Thank you for speaking light into the farthest corners of my heart.
Thank you for putting into words what I also feel about fall.
Even more than New Years, fall for me is the time to look back
and look ahead. A time to remember and to make plans for the future.
Your writing always inspires.
I got a new email and want to take the old one off your list. I already rejoined with my new email. Thank you for your thoughtful words love, always.
Dearest Katrina. It’s such a delight to read your words here. I always appreciate your writings as a way to slow down, tune back into the wonder all around me and deeply inhale and appreciate all the beauty this life has to offer. Thanks for always being the breath of fresh air I didn’t realize I needed <3
Your “how could I not?” realizations are like little seeds of thought, springing afterward a grateful, hopeful, reverent attitude toward living. If we could all look at the life around us and see that the only thing to do is to stand in awe, wondering at the miracle of flowers and bees, the laughter of a baby, the joy in a cup of tea with a friend. If I am lucky enough to grow old, I hope that when I look back on the way I chose to live my life, and on the way I choose to live every day as an older mother and maybe grandmother, I can only gaze at all of the beauty surrounding me, even in times of trouble, and think, “how could I not?”
Thank you
Thanks for your inspiring words based on the First Day of Fall. I always look forward to your name appearing in my E-mail Inbox. Many times this Summer, for comfort and inspiration, I have reached for your book, “Moments of Seeing”. It was a gift to my wife and I from Lauren. Your words convey so much meaning for all of us.
What an exquisite capturing of the moment the transition to fall brings us to. I am so grateful to be invited into this space by your words and sharing. Thank you!
Thank you Katrina for the beautiful words. A beautiful way to calm my soul.
My grateful heart smiles🍁
I’m sitting here watching the wind kick up hundreds of birch leaves from the front yard. The air is cooler than yesterday and I wonder why at this glorious time I am feeling sad. And then it hits me: I am grieving my own anniversary of loss this year. A childhood friend, a newer friend I had just begun trusting with my secrets and a beloved pet. The cycle of life is quite clear and still just beyond my understanding. Thank you for helping me feel less alone and more aware.
i always love Mary Oliver, as you know, but my favorite lines in this post are yours:
“And I am humbled by all of it. Perhaps growing up, growing old, even growing wise simply means finally, fully appreciating the miracle of being here. Maybe it also means recognizing, at last, that the vast, eternal rhythms at work in the world are holy, mysterious, and forever beyond my own limited understanding.”
Yes. xoxo