Embracing the late days of autumn...

Today and tomorrow have been set aside for "yard work." This is a generic label that in our neck of the woods really means "getting ready for winter" - and it can be a hassle or soul food.  It is a lot of work - a ton of leaves to rake, assorted twigs and branches to gather, a deck to clear and a doggie area to clean.  On Wednesday, when our first dusting of snow caught us unawares, today's tasks felt like a hassle.  But it is now almost 50 F and all the snow is gone, so what was once a grind has the potential for becoming a soul satisfying outdoor prayer.

There is something cleansing about clearing away the debris of one season in anticipation of the next, yes?  It not only gets the earth ready for a long rest, but helps me ease into the changes, too. When we moved back to North Country, I dreaded winter. After 10 years in the desert Southwest I thought I was too mellow for the stark severity of this season.  But as our seventh season takes root, I find that I am both excited by the clarity of winter's night sky and eager to hear the silence of our first snow. 

Don't get me wrong:  I'll be carping and complaining about it all by January - and be ready to head South for a spell by February - but for now all is anticipation.  And preparation.  A prelude to Advent for certain. The poet, Annie Finch, put it like this in "Samhain (A Celtic Halloween.)"

In the season leaves should love,

since it gives them leave to move

through the wind, towards the ground

they were watching while they hung,

legend says there is a seam

stitching darkness like a name.

Now when dying grasses veil

earth from the sky in one last pale

wave, as autumn dies to bring

winter back, and then the spring,

we who die ourselves can peel

back another kind of veil

that hangs among us like thick smoke.

Tonight at last I feel it shake.

I feel the nights stretching away

thousands long behind the days

till they reach the darkness where

all of me is ancestor.

I move my hand and feel a touch

move with me, and when I brush

my own mind across another,

I am with my mother's mother.

Sure as footsteps in my waiting

self, I find her, and she brings

arms that carry answers for me,

intimate, a waiting bounty.

"Carry me." She leaves this trail

through a shudder of the veil,

and leaves, like amber where she stays,

a gift for her perpetual gaze.

The next few weeks will be full - practice for our Thanksgiving Eve

concert, pastoral and family visits and suppers, house cleaning and all

the rest - so today is about solitude. And silence. And becoming a part

of the soil and natural rhythm of things. Everything now is a sweet

amber that will soon fade to grey.  I like Rilke's words today, too:

After the summer's yield, Lord, it is time

to let your shadow lengthen on the sundials

and in the pastures let the rough winds fly.

As for the final fruits, coax them to roundness.

Direct on them two days of warmer light

to hale them golden toward their term, and harry

the last few drops of sweetness through the wine.

Whoever's homeless now, will build no shelter;

who lives alone will live indefinitely so,

waking up to read a little, draft long letters,   

and, along the city's avenues,

fitfully wander, when the wild leaves loosen.