Autumn

I can always see the first fruits of autumn poking it's little buds out. In the past, these sightings have stirred immense glee and anticipation of all that the fall holds. But this year, I caught myself feeling resistance to the Fall crouching in. Not sure why; maybe some of it has to do with having a somewhat traumatic winter last year, having a baby and all. Some of you might think I am being a little dramatic calling the events of last winter "traumatic" but they were. They really were. My world was rocked and I continue to process the ways my life has been turned upside down in one fell swoop.

However, my heart is warming to the idea of autumn as it has poked it's head out of the curtain of summer. I have watched the small little corn field on Crabapple Farm turn golden brown as the once green stalks are drying out. The forested areas in Lake Forest and Lake Bluff are beginning to blush those scarlet reds and burnt oranges. The great and grand Maple tree on Sheridan is beginning her crowning procession; she is always the first tree in the neighborhood to display her glory of orange. Mums are in the front yards and the air has that crisp, sharp slant to the light passing through it. I am beginning to see the trees drop their leaves and my tomatoes have forever retired after not producing much of a "red" tomato harvest. Lots of green ones [did I water them too much, I wonder?] We had turn the furnace on already after having some chilly days which gave us every excuse to build a roaring fire in the hearth. We nestled ourselves on our comfy overstuffed couch, listening to classical guitar playing in the background and poked our noses in our delciously good fiction books, drinking Ivan's homemade hot chocolate and eating my peanut butter chocolate chip cookies. My sister called one day and left a message saying, "Isn't this George Winston weather?" Yes, indeed. Autumn illicits somber, melancholy music that tugs at places of grief and loss.

So I plunge into the earth, turning up the soil, adding sand to the clay and ridding the beds of those blasted day lilies that are like garden pests. I have such generous friends, neighbors and patients that have contributed plants from their perrenial gardens. Daisies, hastas, cleomatis, ferns, all sorts of flowering plants that I can't remember the name of and wish I had written them down, herbs, a bay tree (so I can have bay leaves for soups to my heart's content), a trumpet vine, bottlebrush, grasses and lots of bulbs (thanks to LoAnn). Putting my hands in the earth and tending to these little plants makes me want to endure through the winter so I can see them come alive in the spring. How fun and joyous will that be? I am sure I will take Ivan on a tour showing him every little shoot, talking to the little plants, encouraging them to grow.

My dear friend, Stephanie, wrote this in a recent article she wrote for the Pioneer Press: "It's fall when I dwell in possibility," referring to an Emily Dickinson poem. I had never read that poem and I leave you with her words...

I dwell in Possibility
A fairer House than Prose
More numerous of Windows
Superior for Doors

Of Chambers as the Cedars
Impregnable of Eye
And for an Everlasting Roof
The Gambrels of the Sky

Of Visitors, the fairest
For Occupation, This
The spreading wide my narrow Hands
To gather Paradise