Seasoned

    I looked up into trees lined with fall colors, backlit by blue skies. A solitary leaf hit me in the face and continued to the ground. I picked it up and looked it over up close. Nothing overly spectacular, but lined with its own unique intricacies. Its midrib flowed top to bottom with lines and marks of age branching off like a family tree with many twists and redirection. Holes had been eaten through by past inhabitants. Their nourishment had left scars on their lifeblood. Same principle with people; leaving a collective mark on the good earth.

    Another leaf fell my way, this time a smaller and much younger leaf. It being without the scars, but still at end of life with winter approaching. A late bloomer, evidently. Its color already faded, the ravages of time now working against it.

    I am drawn to the old, scarred soul. It's lived long enough to tell a few tales. And it helped a few kindred spirits along the way to flourish.

   

The Golden Hour

Yellow and orange leaves blow across the rutted path. A few browns appear in the mix.

Lingering scents from a fireplace drift in from close by. Dogs bark in the distance.

A hawk cries out from the covering while watching its hiding place disappear, one gust at a time.

Winds whistle through the trees. Its sound is much different that a summer breeze during which the greenery clings to life.

Crackles of sound energize the mountain trail; Dying leaves tumble across the ground, whisper their last breaths. Their joints show signs of wear, but their multi colored faces shine in their finest hour.

A new resting place, just before they become part of the rich foundation for next spring’s revival.

Blue skies look a deeper blue; shadows seem a bit darker.

A chill is in the air, and it has settled into the joints of the forest. Death is imminent as its season approaches. It’s a relief from this lifetime of struggle. The golden hour can be cruel; its harsh features of age and experience overlap youth’s clean lines of expectancy and hope.

The cycle continues, unrelenting, at times like a forbidden river flowing during the midnight hour, seen by no one, but carving its path none the less.

Ramblings from the Woods (Part 2)

My habit of venturing into the woods on long hikes has been disrupted this year by what has turned into chronic back issues. I'm hopeful I'm on the mend now, between chiropractors, orthopedic specialists and physical therapists, but it's still ongoing and severely affecting my outdoor activities. I still read through my hiking guide and planning my hikes, putting next year in front of me. I don't plan to stay down.

I have been taking walks, albeit short ones, in the wooded area at my home, and I've added images from the past couple of weeks. Nature has healing power, and it lifts my spirit to walk among the trees and smell the natural scents of the woods. The sounds draw me into its world. Funny how things of our world look so out of place in the woods, like the image below of a busted balloon and its string. It drifted along from a birthday party and crash landed, nestled between trees and surrounded by leaves and pine straw. But take a walk along the sidewalk of a shopping strip and a sprig of grass shooting upward through the sidewalk looks out of place, and the thought is to spray it with weedkiller. Before it takes over.

Nothing like the body holding down a person's spirit. I can't wait to get back out on the trails.

The images below are not spectacular, or taken at the perfect time of day. I didn't photograph any deer or other wildlife on these days. It captures something that's mundane to some, but engaging to others.

Stood out like a sore thumb

Like a birdbath for bugs

Treehouse in the distance

Deer activity

A lovely path

Ramblings from the Woods

I stepped away for an hour and settled into a familiar place. It was close enough to the deep woods for me to become immersed.  Below are my rambling thoughts I had while sitting there, soaking in all that nature had to offer on this given day. This represents raw data from my head. Thoughts sometimes need to go along with the atmosphere, so some if this may sound strange.

Eighty one degrees F, no rain with a brief cloud cover coming through. And the glorious sounds of summertime woods.

A chitter chatter from overhead. Nature’s delight.

If I can only obtain an unwavering faith that won’t second guess at the drop of a hat.

Life is so perilously short and fragile.

I keep coming back to the seasons of life. Am I in the prime season, with all its beauty and wonder? The fall season of life? It seems I am consistently indoors, working toward a winter of frailty and dreams that are well beyond their expiration date.

Is this merely a mid-life crisis of sorts, looking at the things of life I enjoy and realizing I may not have too many fall seasons left?

Quality years, not just remaining years.

I hear the overhead chatter again. For a moment it dropped from my conscious. Yet there it is, enjoying its season, not stopping when it can sing its tune and voice its intentions. But the woods live a fullness of life, until its final breath is released. Unlike people, who can get caught up in any number of distractions and get far away from what they are here to do. And enjoy. And contribute to.

I wonder….could I live in the woods after decades otherwise? When the nighttime falls and creatures of the night come alive once more. I feel more alive sitting here listening and watching nature’s beautiful world than sitting in an office. Life goes on.

Wants vs. needs (fulfillment.)

My name appears on a wood floor, inside an ages-old cabin, from a simpler time. My permanent mark, intended to always be there. Until corrupt practices destroy the cabin. Although fire and the incessant ticking of the clock could ultimately do the same.

How can I leave a permanent mark on this world? By making it a better place. The ultimate anonymous gift. Think about the next generation and leave something good behind. A foundation of ideas and a planet to pursue them on.

A Bygone Saturday Afternoon

I was reminiscing today about the miniature golf lot I used to play at when I was a kid, on South Cobb Drive in Smyrna, Georgia. I’m thinking early seventies because my parents were okay with dropping me and a friend off on a Saturday with enough cash for their all-you-can-play deal on two separate 18-hole courses. I had to be at least ten at the time, maybe eleven or twelve. This may sound like child abandonment in the modern culture, but in those days it was much safer. And fun.

We generally got bored after a few rounds, but we didn’t have to worry about running out of games, or money. All we needed was a golf club, golf ball, and a drink or two. The drink machine was a treat. Every third or fourth Coke would pop out with a stamp on the top, which meant a free drink next time. I’m thinking they were cans, but it could have been glass bottles. This was back in the era when kids had imaginations we could lazily play along, talking and cutting up (a little bit) while we enjoyed the hot summer that seemed to last forever.

I don’t like getting on the “back in our day” bandwagon. It makes today’s kids roll their eyes. But back before cell phones, video games, and all the electronic gadgets that have taken over the time and thinking of the modern generation we just had time, very little money, and imaginations that would confound kids today. Kept us busy from sunup to sundown.

 I rode a bike everywhere. There is no telling how many miles I logged, just around our neighborhood. Families knew each other in those days, more so I think than now. No cell phones to call the kids. Just expect them home before dark. When we hit home runs from the front yard that landed across the street on the neighbor’s roof it was okay. We jumped our big wheels over handmade ramps, and set up Hot Wheels tracks in the front yard, running downhill from the edge of the street. We hung out at the tennis courts at the park near our house. My point is we rarely stayed indoors unless it rained all day.

We weren’t entirely safe in those days and I suppose we were a bit naive in some ways. But compare it to now. Do I see the danger more sharply now that I’m a parent? Probably, but I didn’t see the kind of hate and disregard for others in those days. Not in my circle, anyway.  Some would say we are more open in our dialogue now, hashing through ages-old problems that were there, but suppressed when I grew up. I agree. But people have changed since the generation of my parents, and we live in a much more dangerous time.

 It’s easy to look back on your childhood with rose colored glasses because we remember only our little world, not the upheavals and pain that adults were going through. Or people we didn’t hang around. But at times when I reminisce, as I sit here on a laptop, checking e-mail and social media, and getting ready to upload a blog…..the simpler times can be appealing, if only it could bring back those days of thinking with childlike wonder and understanding that anything was possible. And time was on our side.

Nature's Changing Face

I’m at my desk writing, gazing out the picture window in front of me at waning daylight. Its sharp lines of sunlight are like spotlights directed at me, not to make me center stage but sent as a reminder of the brevity of time. Light drops by the moment, fading into what will be a spectacular finale of color.

Baby pines in the front yard are  the next generation, ready to step up when their time arrives. Mama doe walks cautiously with her two fawns, which are now close to having no spots at all. They have cleaned off the low hanging fruits from the blueberry bushes, and they’re looking among the shrubs now.

A brown rabbit sits hunched up on its hind legs, nearly blending in with the pine straw strewn behind it. Watching for predators and rummaging for food.

Ravens call to one another, and then meet in the grass below, looking for a meal. Or perhaps shiny new trinkets to carry to their nest.

I am at home in such a place, with nature’s miracle unfolding in front of me. And, I find much to write about here. The city lights are enticing and fun for an occasional excursion, even if only to remind me of how wonderful a place I find in nature, along a wooded path, listening to the music that fits together far more intricately than any symphony. A master composer and musicians may come close, but I have to believe their inspiration comes in part from a setting like this, so beautifully intertwined in both sound and spirit.

And then the creatures of the night come alive. At dusk and early on the music is intense and overwhelming. Fireflies randomly display the darkness with enough of a flicker of light to leave questions in the recesses left behind. What is in that dark spot of woods? Did I see something move? I heard a sound from out there. 

Tree frogs, cicadas, crickets, and on occasion a coyote’s scream pierce the night air. Take a short walk with a flashlight and be careful to avoid stepping on the frogs and snakes. Walk near the thick grove of trees next to the garage and a thunderous rattling of wings nearly makes you fall. Then you wonder; was it an owl? A hawk? It was quiet and breathless until you step over that line of personal space.

From deep in the woods a low, guttural “cronk” sound fills in the gaps of sound, and as it approaches I am sometimes tempted to retreat. But I long to be in a tent, deep in the woods, sleeping peacefully to the sounds of nature that can’t be adequately described with mere words. I feel night time’s cool air as it seeps into the tent and fills every pore of its fabric. I become immersed in the surreal world of the night, stepping outside my normal realm into a fictional story, a fantasy where my imagination can fill in all the blank pages of unseen treasures.  Then, in the deep of the night, as the night creatures begin to slow in their drunken revelry,  a deep, satisfying sleep will close the chapter and usher in a new day. No evidence remains of the night before, and a new beginning full of new hope emerges with morning's soft light.