Autumnal Rhapsodies

The sky was so blue and clear this morning, the trees so bright in their Autumn robes, that I had to write something about it, if only for commemorative purposes. The jungle of our backyard seems to stay the same from day to day yet, if you take the time to study things a little, the vitality of the place becomes rapidly evident. Unfortunately, some of that vitality sometimes finds its way into the house and the spider that looked like it was thinking of hitching a ride on my nightgown could not have realized the mortal peril it was in had it made such an attempt.

At least it did not try to climb into my bowl of hot cereal. I try not to squash the spiders I encounter in the house as it is my constant hope that they will somehow help alleviate the book-eating beetle and clothes-eating moth problem we cannot seem to get ahead of right now. The only time anything of an insect nature gets mashed is when it crawls upon my person and tickles me enough to give me the heebie-jeebies. At that point actions become instinctual and the squashing that results is reflexive in nature, as is the shudder and loud squeals of dread and chagrin that issue forth from my normally quiet, self-contained self. I am fine with most insect life as long as it does not come into direct contact with any part of me.

As I glance out the window, which is presently almost wholly obscured by my boyfriend's monstrous mosquito plants, I can see the bright light of the sun glancing off of the reds and yellows of the Autumn day. It is a day with a distinct sparkle in the air. It is as if all of Nature is getting ready to dance in celebration of the Harvest and the coming of the beauty of Winter; the blight and discomfort of that impending season having been forgotten over the Spring and Summer months.

It is difficult to express adequately the depth of joy I feel in my heart at experiencing such days as this. The light, the beauty, the color, the breath-taking joy that can be Autumn in New England is unmatched by any other place or climate, latitude or longitude, temperate, equatorial, or whatever the case may be. New England's Autumn is sparkle and joy; laughter in the breezes and incredible, frightening, awe-inspiring beauty in the stronger winds that roar through the thinning tree tops causing even the mighty oaks and chestnuts to bow before the might, majesty and strength that is Nature in this small corner of creation.

I wonder if the wind has any memory of having roared freely over the oceans, unhindered as it chose whichever path it desired, before it made landfall and was suddenly impeded by trees and hills, buildings and roadways. I wonder if the roaring through the tops of the trees reminds it of its flight over the crests of enormous, breaking waves and through the chill of open waters, always moving toward the inexorably approaching horizon of coastline that defines humanity's limits yet expresses its limitless possibilities, much as the wind itself is limitless and free.

Standing in the wind along the Atlantic shoreline there is the tangy taste of salt on the fingertips of the wind that blows inland, but here, far from the beaches that line the eastern edge of the country, the salt is only a memory by the time the winds reach our backyard, yet in them I can still smell, still taste the salt of the ocean where these winds that blow find their naissance. It is not quite all gone until the moment of the winds demise across some flat, grey place of pavement with no vestige of nature from which the wind may renew its life and move on. That final swirl of sand and dirt, half-hearted and weak, signals the death of the wind, unable to find its way back to Nature, back to the seas, back to its cradle of birth.

The wind is the original Phoenix, though. Despite all of our attempts to subdue it, to destroy its heart, the wind always rises again, out of its own ashes and laughing, soars the skies once more carrying leaves and color and joy to the very ends of the earth before it dives off of the beaches and back into its glory across the waters of oceans and time. Such is Autumn in New England.

To have been born of those who chose to initially inhabit these areas is, I think, to have within the heart and soul a place where the spirit of the wind dwells; where the voice of the wind is recognized and responded to always in the affirmative. It is to know always that some part of you is standing on a bluff by the open waters of the ocean watching the wind and waves dance together. It is knowing the feel of the dance, the smell of salt and seaweed carried on the winds swirling hemline, the indefinable excitement and joy of standing in the path of that wind, defying its might and strength. It is knowing that you have New England and all of its beauties deeply entrenched in your very being and that even the power and will of the wind cannot rip it from you. Autumn is a wonderful time of year.