Reflections on Autumn

 Autumn continues with pleasant weather. The radiance of  Red Maples is a last flash of color among the many barren trees.  Yellow oak leaves still hang on waiting for the next strong wind or rain storm. 

Spiritually Autumn has a deep meaning centered on balance, release, harvest, and reflection as nature transitions from the expansive energy of summer into the stillness of winter. This period of transition raises existential questions as indicated by this poem by Unitarian Universalist minister Rev. David Bumbaugh.

Dancing in the Wind

Except for a few stubborn holdouts

the tree outside my window

is bare of leaves.

The wind,

this October morning,

worries those few remaining leaves,

pulling them this way,

twisting them that way,

tugging at them

until, one by one,

exhausted by the ceaseless effort to hang on,

they go dancing with the wind.

As they waltz past my window,

the stubbornness has left them

and they are finally free.

What is it about living things

that we expend so much energy resisting the inevitable,

hanging on to that which is already gone,

hoping to sustain a season

into times that are unseasonable,

clinging to old habits

despite the pain and the discomfort. 

Why are we so afraid to dance in the wind?

The poem's last phrase reminds me of a popular phrase from the 1990s, often said by me and my friends: "Go with the flow."  It's from the book Flow: The Psychology of Optimal Experience by Hungarian-American psychologist Mihaly Csikszentmihalyi. Admittedly right now dancing in the wind and/or 'going with the flow" is challenging . Our lives are marked with worry about the effects of the climate crisis, continued political divisiveness as midterm elections approach, and uncertainty about the effects of artificial intelligence; just to name a few. Daily we are deluged with negative news from multiple sources and social media. Sometimes I take a break from this steady stream of news.

Dancing in the wind and going with the flow, plus a good dose of mindfulness, supports feeling the joys of this transitional season. Yes there is joy in these latter days of Autumn and as Halloween approaches. Here's a few recent examples from my life in the walkable Dudgeon Monroe Neighborhood. Living here provides close access to Lake Wingra, UW Arboretum, and the woods bordering Glenway Golf Course. During Autumn I am especially grateful for my close access to nature.  

On Sunday, October 25th after breakfast and my usually Qigong/meditation practices, I walked to the nearby Monroe Street Farmers Market, held in Edgewood High School's parking lot. The market runs from May to the last Sunday in October. I often make the walk and enjoy the opportunity to mingle with my neighbors.

I was disappointment that the Blooms Bakery truck was not present.  After buying microgreens, a squash, and broccoli, I turned back towards home and noticed this "Madison Street Poet." 

I asked if I could take his picture and he agreed while adding, maybe a video. I watched with joy and awe as his attention returned to the small portable typewriter and his two index fingers danced across the keyboard. He writes poems for individuals and for free. There is no container for a donation. 

 I often walk along this path that circles a storm water retention pond in the UW Arboretum, across the intersection of Monroe and Glenway Streets. Contentment, an often companion of joy, is what I feel as I watch the dried grasses sway in the gentle breezes of Autumn. 

The Canadian geese are long gone. During mid-spring,  I patiently waited watching the female sitting on the nest near the shoreline of the island in the middle of the pond. The gander is always nearby. Unlike past years, I didn't see any newly hatched gooselings huddled near the adults. I still wonder what happened. Did they leave earlier than usual? Or did I witness the aftermath of predators?  

Bordering Monroe Street and on the north side of the pond is a garden planted following Indigenous ways. Corn, tomatoes, squash, and peppers grow in narrow rows carved out from the grass. Recently I watched a crane enjoying the vegetables inside the fenced garden. Its mate paced back and forth on the other side of the fence, trying to find an opening in the fencing. I left as the crane continued the futile effort. I wondered why this one didn't fly over the fence. I could feel the crane's anxiety as I passed by.    

Here's a praying mantis resting on a zinnia that I  encountered as a result of my curiosity. I often walk through Wingra Park, across from our apartment. While crossing the park heading north, I noticed a woman intently looking at something in the patch of flowers growing in front of the Wingra apartments. As I approached her she excitedly said :"Look a praying mantis."  

Together we shared the joy and awe of watching this majestic insect. We watched as slowly the mantis moved into the brown grasses, using its thin legs and feeling the way forward with its antennae.  Once into the grasses, we could hardly tell the mantis from the grasses. Looking carefully we noticed the green under belly. As the mantis faded into the grasses, the woman informed me that she planted the zinnias and I told her that was a good choice. She lives in one of the first floor apartments.  

Like me, the woman is an observer and admirer of the crane family, which she mentioned before we parted. Here they are on Knickerbocker. Once again they successfully crossed busy Monroe Street.   

Soon the family and other cranes will migrate south. They will leave between October and December and eventually head to Florida, Tennessee, Indiana, Georgia, Kentucky, and Texas. Before heading South, Wisconsin cranes gather in large numbers at staging areas—such as Crex Meadows Wildlife Area, Horicon Marsh, and the Wisconsin River—to feed and build up energy. I  wonder how cranes decide what is their final destination. 

Another example of Autumn's pleasures was the October 17th Prospect Gardens work session. Each year select dried plants are cut back. Several other plants that are still blooming or have gone to seeds are left in tact in anticipation that seeds will spread, to provide feed for wintering birds, and to provide winter shelter for small animals, like the chipmunks  

Six generous souls joined me. Starting on the left is Laura, then Erica, Joyce (in her stocking cap), Dan, Peggy, and Astrid. Thank you. Your helping hands are so appreciated.

I so enjoyed your company and the feeling of community. As usual I lost track of time. We had a break as required by our absent union steward, my wife Ann. She purchased and packaged the refreshments. Thank you, Ann.

Preparing the Gardens inevitably risks small brown seeds sticking to clothes and in Joyce's case in her hair.  Here's Laura removing the seeds from Joyce's hair.  Ah, the spirit of neighborliness and care. 

Preparing Prospect Gardens reminded me of the Autumns of my childhood and young adulthood. For nearly 19 years, I felt Autumn on our farm as a critical transition to winter and to survive that pending onslaught, preparation was essential. Winters were much longer and intense than now. We coped with more snow storms.  Snow covered the ground from late November and to late April and sometimes into early May. Living at the end of a mile long dead end road meant we were stranded for several days during the most severe storms.

By October, the basement shelves were filled with canned fruits and vegetables, put up by my Mother during the heat of summer. Two crocks full of sauerkraut got us through the winter. Sauerkraut was often served with Polish sausage made by Martha from one of Pulaski's meat markets. Martha was well known for her sausage making. 

Near the crocks was a base of a butter churn crock filled with curing pickles. A plate with a brick on top covered the pickles. A  pile of potatoes along with some  pumpkins filled an area to the left of the stairs.

During October wood from the large pile near the chicken coop was moved into the basement of our house. The source of the wood  was dead trees from a nearby woods cut into small sized pieces. Once I helped my older brother harvest the wood and bring it home. Another brother and I loaded the cut up wood on a flatbed hay wagon, drove the wagon and tractor up next to the back of the house. We then unloaded the wood, tossing pieces through an open basement window, creating a large wood pile. 

Wood was carried upstairs and placed near a stove in the kitchen and another in the dinning/living rooms to be fed into each by my Mother. The kitchen stove was used for cooking until Mother had a gas stove. This same stove heated water in an attached large reservoir used for bathing. Sometime in early 1959 and before my 15th July birthday, an indoor bathroom and hot water heater were installed. 

Halloween was always celebrated with my fellow students in the one room school house we attended. On Halloween day those who could afford one wore their purchased outfits. I recall only having a farmer's cap while not trying to be envious of Nora's store brought sparkling green gown with matching face mask. Regardless, we all paraded around the room and enjoyed treats that the teacher purchased. 

The highlight was entering the haunted girls' cloak room. My sister Angie and her friend Theresa created the haunted chamber of horrors. One year we were blindfolded and led into the room. We were subjected to feeling scary imaginary objects, like the brains of a monster which were really the innards of a pumpkin along with some other slimy material.    

Today, the tradition of creating haunted places continues in my neighborhood. This haunted junk yard is a short walk up Commonwealth and in the house's backyard bordering Fox Avenue. Two sessions are offered: one at 5pm that is less scary and the other more scary one at 6:30pm.

   

Halloween is just one day to be enjoyed by all ages during this Autumn season. On this warm Autumn day, I end with a Mary Oliver's poem for your own reflection. Be well and enjoy the remaining Autumn days.

  Fall Song by Mary Oliver

Another year gone, leaving everywhere
its rich spiced residues: vines, leaves,

the uneaten fruits crumbling damply
in the shadows, unmattering back

from the particular island
of this summer, this NOW, that now is nowhere

except underfoot, moldering
in that black subterranean castle

of unobservable mysteries – roots and sealed seeds
and the wanderings of water. This

I try to remember when time’s measure
painfully chafes, for instance when autumn

flares out at the last, boisterous and like us longing
to stay – how everything lives, shifting

from one bright vision to another, forever
in these momentary pastures.

 

  

.