WALDEN
THE WINTER ISN'T FAR BEYOND THE FROSTED HORIZON
There is that tell-tale trace of woodsmoke permeating the air this afternoon, that is quite nostalgic, very much the harbinger of the time of year when it is wise to huddle at hearthside. What has been a gentle autumn season, spare the few windstorms to blast-across Birch Hollow, the mild temperatures have kept the leaves from turning, in some cases, and falling onto this forest path that leads through the bog. It is Hallowe-en today, and while there is no sign of ghosts or hobgoblins lurking in the woodland shadows, as of yet, there's a distinct feel of winter quickly approaching……and I fear that much more than wee beasties and scurrilous other Hallowe'en apparitions.
Outside of the trickle of water over the myriad cataracts through this lowland, or the sound of a leaf hitting the ground, it is a wonderfully silent place to ponder the season's transition. I confess to having visited this place less, few times this autumn season, and working harder and longer as home and business economy demand, these days. I most often venture forth, when admittedly I'm fed-up with the rigors, or frustrated with the way time, and its subtle seconds disappear into regret, and rob me of arriving at this portal feeling optimistic…..I can make up the time by keen awareness before the sand disappears down the proverbial hour-glass. I despise having these regrets, and the sense of time loss, that could have been spent enjoying these natural wonders, that surround me in this wild, forgiving, restorative place. Yet strangely, as the resilient soul soon discovers, what might be a mortal loss, is a spiritual gain, and after a few moments of solitude, and general ponder, I will once again find myself thinking the absence was necessary……to make this re-discovery ever-more poignant and meaningful to the unsettled heart.
I will carry away, this rejoice of heart, regeneration of spirit, when soon nightfall prevails itself upon the watcher, and beyond here, will come the determined footsteps of faithful trick or treaters, looking to fill their cloth sacks,…… with the candy handed out, by kindly neighbors and traditionalists, up and down this street. Tonight, they will not be bathed in moonlight, but possibly in the cold rain of inclemency. It won't dampen their resolve to visit as many residences as possible. Just as I trundled, and my young lads ran from house to house as children, with little regard for the prevailing weather. It was the allure of "the treat."
Angst is the curse of the times. The economic troubles around the globe. The assorted stalemates and inconsistencies brewing locally, all ramp up fear of recessionary waves, when reality serves its warning……, of imminent peril ahead; yet we've only just been released by the last undertow of poor economy. It is a wonderful place, this friendly bog, to contemplate one's next move. As the poet and artist revel in this haven of trees and waterfalls, frost-layered cat-tails and leaning old birches, next to venerable old pines, so too can the work weary find solace, in this non-hectic pace, of slow footfall on a well trodden path, from here to there, in the midst of this natural embrace…..I must never distance myself……as it has been salvation so many times in the past.
Now I must don the weight of ponderous chain once more, and try to find the sense of business, to the soft, steady cadence, I can feel against my soul, of sand hitting sand in this hour glass life we try to survive foolishly by efficiency and profit……unlike these leaves that have never worried about getting old and falling…..and haver never once turned a profit, except for the joy they have given me.
