by jphilo | Nov 7, 2009 | Walking Down the Gravel Road
My breath caught in my throat when I looked outside one morning earlier this week. The walnut and ash trees east of our neighbor’s house were naked, their limbs stripped of leaves. This fall has been a wet one, and the bare limbs reminded me of how little time there was to spend outside and enjoy fall.
Did fall sneak by, I wondered as I began my walk, because I’ve been too busy, because I didn’t make time to rest and be still? Whatever the reason, the stark tree trunks and bony limbs, reaching with clawlike fingers to scratch the sky, made me ache for shady, green leaves and summer days.
When I reached the end of the driveway, I turned east, in the direction of the dull brown stand of trees. I wanted to shut my eyes and ignore these harbingers of winter. But I couldn’t because a glow of shocking pink and cobalt blue sunrise poured through the tree trunks. It filled in the nooks and crannies where the leaves used to live. It rested on the fingertips of the trees and shimmered on the horizon, a mass of stripes, a riot of color, a sudden wave of beauty.
And then it was gone. The trees were brown and bare again, the limbs stark and bony once more. But I was changed, because I had seen what summer and fall had hidden from me during their long and riotous reigns:
There is beauty beyond the obvious and easy.
There is beauty in spareness.
There will be beauty this winter.
But I have to look up to find it.
by jphilo | Oct 23, 2009 | Walking Down the Gravel Road
This morning, as I slogged down our gravel road, I could only think of one word to describe the weather on my first full day back in Iowa.
Mushy.
The road was mushy, pot-holed and slippery, unable to absorb all the rain we’ve received. Lawns were strewn with a mushy, sodden carpet of leaves.
The muscles in my legs were mushy, out of shape and useless as I climbed the steep hill beyond the bridge.
The damp in the air made my clothes so mushy and heavy they clung to me, smothering my skin.
My mind felt mushy, overwhelmed by the piles of bills, an overflowing email inbox, thank you notes to write, and books to send after my walk was over.
Then the cold wind, egged along by all I need to do in too little time, pushed against my heart and I wanted to go home and crawl back in bed instead of tackling the demands of today, my spirits turned mushy, too.
Mushy and mopey, I walked by a burning bush, brilliant in spite of the gloom and flanked by a yellow maple tree bright as the sun. The day was as mushy as ever, but glowing colors warmed me. They burned off the gloom, and evaporated the dampness in my heart. I walked home, full of purpose. My mind was sharp with red and yellow foliage, challenged by its brilliant refusal to surrender to the mushiness of this gloomy, cold October.
Time to get to work.
by jphilo | Oct 21, 2009 | Walking Down the Gravel Road
In the last seven days I’ve seen so many beautiful things: California sunrises and sunsets, rolling desert mountains, palatial homes, the Pacific Ocean, the posh resort where the classic movie Some Like It Hot was filmed, the San Diego Zoo, Balboa Park, the Coronado Bridge.
But yesterday, between trips, I was home for 24 hours and spent one of them walking through the park. The leaves on the trees were brilliant, and I took picture after picture, trying to capture their beauty without much success. But when I left the park for home, walking on an ordinary small town sidewalk, I looked up at a tree so richly yellow it gleamed.
My heart skipped a beat, then I walked on. Seconds later, I retraced my steps, unwilling to abandon the shining moment. Ignoring the cars passing by, I aimed my camera up until the viewfinder was a solid mass of gold, and clicked. When I reviewed my pictures later, this one – the one I almost didn’t take, contained all the beauty of an Iowa fall morning.
In the past few days I’ve seen oceans and mountains, great cities and marvelous feats of engineering. But nothing has been more lovely than the pure gold I saw on an ordinary tree on an ordinary street in my ordinary little town.
The ordinary blessings, if I take time to see and appreciate them, are the greatest blessings of all.
by jphilo | Oct 13, 2009 | Walking Down the Gravel Road
Winter arrived abruptly this year. With the turn of the calendar page, Iowa went from a dry, warm September to a chilly, damp October. Speaking on behalf of the residents of our state, along with the flora and the fauna, I can tell you we’re still shivering with shock. Hopefully, an ambulance will arrive soon, and the EMTs will wrap us in blankets and elevate our heads until we can get to the hospital for an IV packed with mild autumn days and crisp, cool (but not frigid) nights.
This business of going straight from summer with winter has given me a wistful appreciation for fall. I’m longing for hayrides, picking out pumpkins at a pumpkin patch, the fall colors, rolling around in the crisp softness of piles of newly raked leaves. Instead, the days are full of rain and wind, the nights end with hard frosts and a skim of ice on the rain barrel.
The critters aren’t handling this abrupt winter very well either. In fact, sometime yesterday, after the farmer down the road harvested his corn, Mickey and Minnie winterized their summer cabin, battened their boat in the dock, packed their bags and headed for their favorite winter digs in my car. We’re evicting the squatters even as I speak, using as much violence as necessary, even though I sympathize with their discombobulation.
Near the garage, which the mice have dubbed “the Philo Marriott,” one rose bush refuses to bow to the inevitable. This morning, heavy frost covered it’s last, brave rose bud. I was sure it would turn black when the sun hit. But this afternoon, the flower waved its petals, bright and pink, when I went to get the mail.
Suddenly, I wanted to knit a tiny stocking cap for the courageous little thing, rig up my blow dryer as a heater. Something, anything to thank little Rose for bringing a touch of summer courage into my frosty soul.
But don’t think I’m getting to be an old softy. Mickey and Minnie are still out on their ears…unless you’d like them to live at your house.
by jphilo | Sep 21, 2009 | Walking Down the Gravel Road
This morning’s thunderstorm ended a long spell of sunny, dry late summer weather. It started near the end of August, perfect timing since the growing season was winding down. After a summer of abundant rainfall, the crops didn’t need much moisture. Neither did the lawns.
Things were so good for so long, I grew uneasy. It was the middle of September. The windows had been open and air conditioner had been off for over a month. The temperatures were warm in the day and cool at night, with no hint of furnace weather anywhere.
This kind of thing doesn’t happen the midwest. Perfect weather lasts a week now and then, but never a whole uninterrupted month. Even in summer’s glory days, if we manage to escape tornadoes, lightning strikes, hail, straight line winds, and blinding fog, the humidity is so oppressive, a person can hardly catch her breath.
As a rule, I think our part of the world’s less than perfect weather holds other disasters at bay. That’s why I grew increasingly concerned when this string of low humidity, cloudless blue sky, cool nights, and warm days drug on. Something bad was going to happen, if the weather didn’t break soon. I just knew it.
So when the rain began during my morning walk, complete with unexpected lightning that could have fried my computer and struck me dead, it washed away my uneasiness. The world wasn’t perfect in my neck of the woods anymore. It was messy and muggy with a hint of mildew, just the way I like it.
I’m happy again. Perfectly happy in my imperfect world.
by jphilo | Sep 11, 2009 | Walking Down the Gravel Road
Man, life is dangerous along our little gravel road these days. Every morning, the squirrels are terrorizing the neighborhood with their nutty shenanigans. They crouch on tree limbs, ammunition in hand, waiting for unsuspecting dufasses, namely me, to walk by. The minute I do, they fire with both barrels, dropping black walnuts and acorns with way too much glee.
If you still don’t believe beautiful September is dangerous around here, just ask our neighbors, the kamikaze toads and frogs. Of course the ones who dash from one side of the road to the other, and end their lives wearing tire tracks and doing a fair imitation of Flat Stanley, can no longer tell you how dangerous it is in these parts. But a stroll down the lane, which ends up being more of a pick-your-way-past-the-corpses and duck-before-the-squirrels-nab-you, provides gruesome proof if you need it.
As for me, I’m donning combat gear until the critters hibernate. Between my broken umbrella that protects me from rodent terrorists and Hiram’s old galoshes that keep froggy Flat Stanleys from slipping into my shoes, I pretty much scare off the wildlife on my daily walks.
Tell you what, the guy who said war is hell knew what he was talking about. But then again, walking four miles in Hiram’s galoshes is no picnic.
How long until October and the first frost?
