first autumnal chill

sunrise:  5:48

August 24th, and today I felt the first autumn like chill in the morning air.  Wonderful.  Most of the trees are still entirely green, but their leaves shiver in a dryer, wearier fashion at this time of year.  They are preparing to make their final transitional performance before they heave a sigh and let go.

This one tree began turning almost two weeks ago (see photo, Aug 14). It is in its brilliant prime now - the advance scout of fall.

There is no light I have seen anywhere that can top the enchantment of autumn sunlight in New England.  I am looking forward to the next two months outdoors.

******

I had an interesting realization as I looked ahead on my sunrise calendar yesterday. 

The latest sunrise in December (standard time) will be 7:12am, where it will hover for a few days near the end of the month before shifting back in the annual swing towards earlier dawns.  (If you didn't happen to read my explanation of why the latest and earliest sunrises don't occur at the solstices, see June 10th entry)

The latest sunrises for this year will NOT be at the end of December, however, but in the first week of November.  Daylight savings time ends on the first Sunday in November, which will be the 7th this year.  Therefore, the sun will rise at 7:13 on November 1st, progressing later to 7:20am on November 6th (Saturday), and drop back an hour the next day (6:21am). 

It was encouraging to note that it is just over two months away, not four, to those wonderful late risings.

open the gates and seize the day

sunrise:  5:47

Part of the original premise of my year long early rising blog project was to give myself a good reason to get out of bed every morning.  It is embarrassing, or maybe even depressing to admit that I could stay in bed almost indefinitely if I really wanted to.  Not every day - life and family responsibilities would catch up to me - but much of the time, my jobs, duties, projects, and responsibilities do not demand immediacy in a daily context. 

So what is to require that I leave that comfortable, warm, escapist place between the covers of my bed?

One answer is: something that you must do. 

The other answer is: something that you want to do.

So I created a context for which I was required to get up every day - early, consistently, without fail.  It may be an illusion of my own creation, but it has worked for 204 days so far.  There have been many days when it was only the "must do" aspect of the project that made me haul myself out of sleep, but then there are other days...

The best days this year, the best days in life in general, are those days when you bounce up out of bed with a flutter of excitement in your belly.  Something wonderful is coming, some excellent prospect is so enticing that you don't want to miss a moment of it, and you cannot stay in bed a minute longer.  You can't wait to get up and meet the day.

For no profound reason I felt that stirring today.  It has happened to me several times this year, simply because I look out the window and see a tantalizing glow of rosy sky.  Something excellent is happening, and I don't want to miss it.  A line from a song comes to mind - "Open the gates and seize the day" (from the show "Newsies").  For that reason alone, for those mornings when the vibrant hues of dawn were all it took to get me excited about jumping into the world, this year has been well worthwhile.

My father-in-law, a twinkling idealist full of compassionate nobility about whom I have written several times, loved his work as a family doctor.  He told me once that "not a day goes by when I don't look forward to getting up in the morning."  I suspect there might have been some exaggeration, but perhaps not.  He had a source of energy and vitality and optimism that felt boundless right through his final days of life. 

I always envied him that excitement about living and working.  I certainly cannot say that I look forward to getting up every day, but I'm working on finding that kind of motivation for daily living.  It's nice to know that the rising sun can help me get there.  It is one thing that will never go away.

Well, at least by the time it does go away none of us will be here to worry about it.

bugged out

sunrise:  5:44

The mosquitoes were fierce this morning. Meditative musing while sitting on a rock was not an option. After two stoic minutes of resistance I fled.

Now those tiny, nearly weightless creatures continue to plague me, distracting me with the itchy aftermath of their assault. I think it is best that I leave my photos to speak a more peaceful message.

island inspirations

sunrise:  5:43

T’s commute is reduced by about 70% when she comes here to the island instead of going all the way home, so she talked us into joining her here for a couple of nights. We had the usual ambivalence about coming, born of that common human affliction best described by the physics of inertia – reluctance to move. After the inevitable rush to catch the ferry and the laden trek across the island, we basked in the satisfaction of being in one of the finest places on Earth.

I have a volunteer commitment back at home for an hour later this afternoon, so I’ll be doing a reverse commute – about an hour and a half each way. It will be good to see how that feels, since J and I are considering the prospect of living more here than at home, once there are no kids around for whom to be a home base. Of course, J can’t be on call from here, but maybe commuting on regular days will become a viable routine.

********
I have just registered for a writer’s conference in October. It feels good to be taking active steps now to plunge back into writing the life story of my inspirational friend and colleague, Rachel Field, who lingers in the corners of my mind all the time.

In addition to being a poet, children’s author, novelist, and playwright, Rachel Field was an illustrator. One of her favorite forms of artwork which she used to illustrate several books was silhouettes, cut out from black paper. This island provided many of her silhouette subjects. Though the trees aren’t the very same ones that she knew back in the 1930’s, they are the descendants, and probably look very much like their forbears.

From her writings I have concluded that Rachel was often awake before dawn. Unlike the trees, the sun is unchanged, and I like to think about her watching the same bright orb as I am watching now, seeing the rosy shadows that it casts over the walls of the home that we share, feeling reassured to see it rise over the eastern horizon in celebration of a new day.

comforted by dog and man

sunrise:  5:44

Another foggy summer morning.  The air is damp, but the land is parched.  I have never seen the pond levels so low.  A few ducks linger on the algae-laden surface, but they show less zip than they did earlier in the season.  All the songbirds are quiet these days.  Sometimes, it is difficult to absorb that bright light of inspiration from my back yard.

In my three canine companions, however, I find no sign of apathy, lethargy or decay.  So I chose them as my photographic subject of the morning.  Every day when I trudge into the kitchen they leap to attention, hopefully alert for the moment that I open the gate to the mudroom, ready to take them outside.

They explode out the door like a flood, as though there is circus parade passing by, or a meteor in the sky that they MUST NOT MISS.  Nope.  Just the same old yard, but they don't seem to care.  Off they gallop towards the pond, the trees, the smells and sounds of potential prey to pursue.  Or -- just some chasing of sticks, stealing of sticks, sprinting in circles, rolling in the grass.  Life, for them, is a perpetual playground.

And -- I am the touchstone to which they perpetually return, so I guess that makes me the source, in a way, of their joy.  That is a warming feeling.

As my nest approaches emptiness, as my four human charges launch on their way, I have another fount of support that has great potential to sustain me.  Today marks 27 years that I have been married to my fine husband, J.  The evolution of a marriage is a fascinating thing, and ours is no exception.  To imagine that we will be returning, this fall, to the relationship we had 24 years ago before children joined our lives would be ludicrous.  But there are elements of familiarity, foggy memories from a distant past that seem to glimmer back into view when we have been left alone for a day or two - a little glimpse into our empty nested future, with shades of the empty nested past.  I think it will be okay.

You do learn over time, if you're paying attention and trying hard, to read your partner.  You learn what they need from you, what drives them crazy, how to negotiate troubled waters, when to speak up and when to keep quiet.  And most of the time you try to apply what you've learned.

When we were first married I had some insecurities.  J, on the other hand, was in a prime period of confidence and forward-looking anticipation, kind of like the dogs at the point of bursting out the door in the morning.  The contrast between us troubled me.  I had the sense that I believe many women with confident men have experienced, that I was not needed.  Truly, in a literal, practical sense, J did not need me.  Much as I know he loved me, wanted me in his life, was devoted and committed to our marriage, at that young, sincere, fervent stage of life, it was hard for him to say in honesty that need was a part of the picture.

Needing someone, one discovers over the course of time, is not the same as being dependent upon them.  Of course any one of us can survive on our own, but we're not talking about survival.  My three dogs could survive without me.  They might suffer, get hungry, feel unhappy, but they would live.

Their touchstone, however, would be missing.  They would feel a hole, the loss of continuity, of the thing they count on.  They would be missing that centerpoint where they check in, give their affection and receive it back dependably, that powerful foundation of strength that is both anchor and sail.  For that, they need me.

To provide that anchor and sail for those I love has been my full time occupation for over 23 years.  I was the touchstone to which they perpetually returned, which made me their source of joy.  They needed me.  Playing that role has warmed, fulfilled, sustained and expanded me like nothing else ever has.  Relegating that job to part time consultant pains me, and worries me. 

In the midst of an aching bout of silent grief the other day, I confessed my sorrow to J.  It was one of those moments that I felt lost at the prospect of all of my children being gone from me.  In a profound moment of understanding, with very matter of fact delivery, he said to me, "I need you, R."

How did he know?  I didn't even know myself what I was fearing, but somehow he figured it out.  Thanks, J.  Happy anniversary.

boundaries

sunrise:  5:42

Our expanse of property, 13 acres in total, feels much bigger sometimes than others.  It is largely due to mood and frame of mind, but sometimes it is physical change.  After mowing, when I can visually track the explorations of the dogs everywhere they go, the fields seem smaller.

There are scents galore out there.  Clara is the most avid tracker, Guster likes to set off the alarm with his baying cry, Kate only joins in when something really intense happens - but I have never been able to detect what it is.  She hovers by my side, stick at the ready, 98% of the time.  But once in a while there is a moment when she suddenly whips her head around and bolts after the other two dogs, in hot pursuit of...whatever.

When they hit the boundary lines they veer off in two directions, gazing longingly into the woods where they can't go.  It is the most humane and freeing innovation, this electronic boundary fence.  After two weeks of early training, all it takes is the little beeping reminder to keep them safe from cars, getting lost, aggravating humans, and many other mishaps.

But -- I feel sorry for them too.  They want to bound with abandon through the woods, following their noses for long distances according to their nature.

I get feeling the same way myself.  Even within this beautiful stretch of land, sometimes I feel bound into a confined space.  My world feels like a tiny bubble within which I circle around in my daily routines.  I pace the boundaries in my mind and feel the urge to run off, knowing that I really can't.

Sometimes that's life.  It will pass.

tale of fox and pocket rocks

sunrise:  5:41

J mowed for hours over the last few days, bravely (if not serenely) facing faulty starters, dead batteries, and overflowing radiators until he finished the job.  The reward is a beautiful stretch of fields that remind me of a shaggy teenager who finally got a haircut.

A second reward was spending an afternoon in the company of a charming young fox.  The vole population was laid bare by the mowing.  I suspect that may be why our foxy friend was feasting away out there unabashedly for hours.  J. called the house from his cell phone to say we should come out with binoculars.  He was the cutest thing (the fox, that is, though J was pretty cute too, in his enthusiasm), stalking prey along the edge of the taller grasses, cocking his head, very dog-like, then pouncing.

He didn't seem worried by the big diesel tractor.  He just trotted off a few yards when the tractor swept by and sat down on a nearby hummock of grass to wait, ears on high alert.  I wish I had pictures to share, but it was too far away for my camera.

Deer, skunk, porcupine, fox, voles,  a world of birds, large and small, frogs of many sorts, insects galore.  What a heavily populated back yard we have!  I was feeling sad after S. left for school yesterday, but I should be comforted by all the company we have just a short walk from the house.

Well.  Maybe I should be comforted...but none of those other beings, even in large numbers, can begin to replace my own boy.  Not even that spry, bright little curious fox, though if anyone were to come close, he'd be the one.

******

Since T's best friend is leaving for college in about a week, and T not long after, we did our little send-off ritual last night with the two of them.  It is a tradition we started 3 years ago when N and S and their friends were graduating from high school.

I have a particular love of the ocean-smoothed stones from the beach of our island home.  Just holding them in my hand feels grounding, connects me to solidity and permanence.  I have made a small collection of them, the ones that feel particularly right in the hand, and I offer them to graduates as they leave home for new horizons.  Part of the process is for the recipients to take the time to go through the stones and find the one that fits their own hand best.  It is a gift for them, but it is also a way for me to cope with saying good-bye.

It comes along with a copy of this poem that I wrote for the occasion.  There are personalized variations, but this is the general idea:

Pocket Rocks

From Maine

Although you may be far away

Your roots in Maine are there to stay

This souvenir should help recall,

Throughout the winter, spring and fall,

In gym or dorm or lecture hall

The home that started all your all.

As you venture on your own

This may be your worry stone,

Or a pocket rock to strum

Between a finger and a thumb

At times you’re not sure what’s to come

And you just stand there feeling dumb.

Choose a rock to fill your palm

With strength and weight to make you calm,

It also may enhance your fist

And strengthen arm and hand and wrist.

Or only be a catalyst

For memories of those you’ve missed.

Even if it’s in a drawer

Or on a desk or on the floor

Still it’s there to hold and see,

Reminding you of lake and sea

And who you are and who you’ll be--

Let it set your spirits free.