Here in the Pacific NW, autumn means (when we’re lucky) a few days or a couple of weeks with bright yellow leaves and orange from the native alder and maples, and scarlet or purple from non-native plantings, and then a carpet of rusty brown that contrasts with endlessly gray skies. The now-gray branches of deciduous trees contrast with ever-green fir, cedar, and pine on the hillsides. The remains of grasses and annuals line the roads and cloak fallow fields with gold. The aroma of alder, fir, and cedar in fireplaces wafts on the wind, and those of us close to water listen to the influx of wing beats and calls of northern ducks and duck-like birds (scaups, scoters, bufflehead, and the odd gaggle of geese) and the seals calling to each other at night.
Our “grandmother maple” in the back fell suddenly a month ago, narrowly missing our outbuilding, and – thankfully – doing no damage to the neighbors. She had been tall and beautiful, with a span over thirty feet in diameter that kept that end of our yard cool in the summer. A big leaf maple, a single leaf was the size of a dinner plate, and she was covered in hundreds. Under her shelter grew holly and blackberries, trillium and other native lilies, nettles, oregon grape, and salad. She hosted large colonies of mosses, lichens, and ferns, and left a hole in both the canopy and the soil. Instantly, the light changed in the back yard. More open, brighter – and colder. The other trees in that part of the yard are smaller, and won’t create much shade for several years while they adjust to the open space.
Autumn always feels like I am “waking” the turning year – putting away the remains of summer and getting ready for the long emptiness of winter. It closely mirrors how I grieve the loss of people I love, and the falling tree brought it home to me again. But autumn and winter also bring a chance to take things a little slower, to remember what really matters, and to remember that when a space opens up we inevitably find ways to fill it when we are ready, memorializing what was and building anew.
The newly sunny western end of our yard means we have a location for a new garden – perhaps more fruit trees that, once established, will thrive in the dappled sunlight of early and late summer days, and won’t wilt in full sunlight toward noon. Or a true arbor with grapes and a screened garden room to read or dine in when it’s warm enough.
This post was started in early November, and now it’s a couple days past Thanksgiving. The pies are eaten, the potatoes gone. There is still turkey… there will be memories for a long time of the good food and excellent company, the light-hearted games, the quiet conversations.
It’s a good time of year to reflect, and work on things that allow us to finish the current year with grace and start the new year stronger, braver, and kinder.
The death of the tree allows us to rethink the space and begin new growth. The end of the year allows us to rethink ourselves and continue to grow.
In a world that seems increasingly at odd with the optimism and resolve that followed two world wars and various other wars and skirmishes in the last century, this time of reflection and redirection is sorely needed. Time to start working toward regaining the courage to stand up to hate, heal wounds, and make progress toward restoring a world of promise and opportunity – for all people, everywhere.
All that’s needed is compassion, gratitude, and patience. For ourselves as well as others. Forgiveness starts here. It starts now.
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