Course Wrap Up

Today, I sit in the comfort of the house, covered in a blanket. Thick pellets of ice hit the roof and bounce off of the sliding glass door. It sounds like someone spilled an entire bowl full of marbles on the kitchen floor. I sit by my phone, waiting for a school cancellation call. Virginians are terrified of winter weather.

Someone once told me that in the entire state of Virginia there are only a few giant snow melters.  I’m not sure how valid that is, but it explains why everything shuts down at the first sign of snowflakes. Southerners are unprepared for “harsh” weather. In Western Pennsylvania, there are a few melters in every city. This time of year, you can see mountains of salt in storage facilities along the highway. A friend of mine even carries a snow shovel in her trunk, “just in case.”

Over the course of my nature writing class that spawned this blog, I have grown to be more observant while I’m in the natural world. By viewing the same place week after week, it becomes multifaceted. I was able to see the layers of the land. I pay more attention to the undergrowth, the trees, the wildlife, the smell that hangs in the air, even the way that the breeze flows through different patches of trees.

 It was still summer when I began writing and now It is December. The green leaves changed to yellow and orange and now the trees are bare. It has been so lovely to see how the land transforms over the course of just a few months. I am so thankful for the opportunity to cultivate lenses to view the world around me in a more critical way.

When I began writing this blog, I was extremely homesick. Unfortunately, this feeling hasn’t subsided over the course of the semester.  In fact, juxtaposing the Virginia landscape with the Pennsylvania landscape of my youth has only made me long to be back home. I have been able to appreciate aspects of the southern climate- thanks to insight offered by Lisa and Joseph. I wonder if I will continue to write from the same location, but I hope to maintain my blog in some facet.  

Until then, I’m going to make a cup of tea and accept that for today, I’m going to continue hoping for two inches of snow. While I would have been mocking myself just a few years ago, for being a snow-wimp, I’m going to fully embrace it. 

Snow and Nostalgia

I have always loved classic movies. When I was in high school, over the course of one summer, I watched every movie in the classic section at my local Blockbuster. There was something magical about the glamour of Judy Garland, Marilyn Monroe, Humphrey Bogart, Barbara Streisand, Marlon Brando, and Audrey Hepburn. I relished in the nostalgia. Even though I wasn’t alive when these films were produced, I longed to be a part of the past.

This weekend, I was in Pennsylvania for my cousin’s wedding. Saturday morning, before leaving to accomplish the wedding day itinerary, I took a close look at my best friend’s back yard.  A thin layer of snow blanketed the grass, thick, hearty snowflakes fell to the ground. Bare trees reached their branches up as if to catch a flake mid-air. A thin sheet of ice blanketed the deck, as the temperature plunged quickly the night before.

I recognized all of the foliage- the maple tree that the dogs always play beneath, the weeping cherry tress that act as a barricade between us and a nebby neighbor, lavender that has gone into hibernation, flowerbeds that overflow with blooms in the spring. If I take just a moment, I can see the wildlife that call this place their home: the sparrows, robins, blue jays and cardinals. The hummingbirds that flock to the feeders filled with red, sugary liquid all summer, the monarchs that flutter around the butterfly bushes, even the raccoons that scurry across the yard in the middle of the night.

The wind was cold, but it delivered a refreshing blow to my bones. I hadn’t been home for such a long time that I almost forgot what it was like to need to wear a winter coat. In fact, before I left, I had to dig through my closet to even locate the thing as it had been so long since I needed to wear it.

Earlier in the week, I was at Lisa and Joseph’s, in Virginia, my typical blogging spot. It was still warm. The trees were transitioning from fall to winter and the thought of snow was so foreign. Although I have lived in Virginia for three years, it is often unrecognizable. I long for the cold, and for winding roads that wrap around hills. I ironically feel claustrophobic when I look out to a flat landscape. I want rolling hills covered in trees. If I can see the landscape more than ten miles in front of me, it’s too much.

It’s interesting how nostalgic we become for home, especially around the holidays. The 330-some odd miles that separate me from a place that is so familiar that it feels like an extension of my skin often feel impossible. Even with a wind-chill that dipped way below freezing, my affinity for Western PA’s climate was unwavering.

This weekend, driving through my hometown and even on the turnpike across my beautiful home state, I felt so comfortable.  The displacement and discomfort that I often feel in the south subsided for a few days.  It was not unlike the feeling that comes from watching the opening scene of “Breakfast at Tiffany’s” for the 200^th time, or hearing the first few chords of “The Way We Were.” I’m transported back to a time that makes sense, where I feel so insanely comfortable in my skin.

And so today, I will watch Judy Garland sing and dance in “A Star is Born” and I will long for freezing cold weather that requires a beautiful coat, mittens and a scarf. 

Bare Ruined Choirs

Time does not stand still. The trees on the property are mostly bare. The only leaves that remain are crinkled and brown. The fallen leaves now carpet the yard, for they cannot be raked into piles quickly enough. Sitting on the deck, I drink my coffee slowly, breathing in the sweetness of the creamer and the fresh air that seems to mirror the sweet conversations shared with dear friends.

A crack followed by a thud and a crash signal a falling branch, an auditory reminder of winter’s eminent presence. The trees have stopped their growing for the year and are shedding their vestigial parts.

It is 64 degrees in the middle of November, the lack of greenery and the swooping migrations of birds seem to discount the warmth. The temperature feels like a trick. Looking at the barren landscape, one would assume that air would chill your bones.

I hear a few distant chirps from birds (unlike the sounds of the sparrows and robins that I knew from my childhood) making their way to a warmer climate and the cooing of a cricket down by the pond. The cricket is heralding the last warm day, perhaps celebrating that provisions had been made for winter. These creatures sing the last few notes of the season.

I couldn’t help but think of Sonnet 73 by William Shakespeare as he describes a time, “When yellow leaves, or none, or few, do hang/ Upon those boughs which shake against the cold,/Bare ruin'd choirs, where late the sweet birds sang.”

The speaker of the poem mourns the cold that seems to have stripped away the life that summer once held. It’s as though autumn prepares us for the twilight of winter, where we will inevitably encounter death.

The couplet at the end of the poem reads: “This thou perceivest, which makes thy love more strong,
 /To love that well which thou must leave ere long.”

As we transition out of autumn and into winter, plants decay, leaves fall and light fades as the days grow shorter. Fires are extinguished and we remember that youth doesn’t last. Inevitably, grey hairs will highlight our thick, dark curls. Crows feet will show years of laughter. Our skin will not rejuvenate itself so quickly and having one too many beers. We must start incorporating night cream into our daily routine as we approach a 10:00 bedtime.

The thing is- conclusions are inevitable. Even the most resilient forces must fade away.

I think that Shakespeare is telling us to love more strongly in the days that we are alive because in the end, everything fades. This thought sometimes feels so looming. But, when one tree branch falls, it gives way to new growth.

Winter is such a crucial time because it allows us to retreat and to be pensive. The cold that chills our bones allows our minds to think more deeply about what it means to welcome maturity and to not mourn the fading of youth. The choirs that sat along the tree branches just a few months ago will soon be singing in a warmer place and in another few months, they will return.

The cyclical nature of things allows us to gain a greater perspective with each year. It’s like when you listen to Beethoven and hear variations on a theme. Each time you hear the same notes again, your appreciation grows deeper and your understanding is more complex.

When you greet winter once again, you know the routine. This has happened before and you know that the snow will fall, but the trees will remain. They will grow another ring, their branches might fall, but moving away from youth isn’t always so scary. Things become more familiar. 

Often, with age comes the appreciation of simple, sweet pleasures like the light that falls through a bedroom window on a foggy moonlit night, the sweetness of one square of dark chocolate, or even the sharp inhale of cold air on a late November morning. 

Slow Saturdays

Just like a good Northerner, I drove up Lisa and Joseph’s driveway this morning listening to Bruce Springsteen. His sweet, sultry voice bellowed out “Hey what else can we do now except roll down the window and let the wind blow back your hair…come take my hand, We’re riding tonight to case the Promised Land…” as I passed under a canopy of multicolored leaves.  After a few tough weeks at school, this moment shared with The Boss and autumnal bliss seemed to satiate my need for peace. The slow cadence echoed the movement of the leaves blowing in the wind. For the first time in a while, I took a slow, deep breath.

It’s 50 degrees in Pittsburgh, last week there was a threat of snow showers. It has been in the 70s in Virginia. This morning, instead of a parka, I wear a light sweater.

Lisa greeted me with “A Southern Child’s Favorite Breakfast,” which consisted of: an apple turn over and Rice Krispie cereal over vanilla ice cream.

“It’s dairy” she said as she scooped it into the Fiestaware bowl. “Besides, it makes breakfast last longer.”

We sit on the deck and overlook the pond while we eat. You can see the water more clearly now because the trees are just starting to thin out.  

That’s the thing that I have discovered about the south, everything takes a bit longer. From the snail-like traffic near DC, to the slow rocking chairs that line the porches on my street, to the weather, things here take more time. It’s November and the trees still have a surprising number of leaves on them. By this point in the North, many of them have fallen onto the ground and have been scooped up by rakes, then jumped into by giggling children. Here, the leaves are just beginning to really cover the ground.

This week smelled like fall. That dead leaf-dry air-almost burning- smell wafted through the open windows of my apartment. The heat is almost disorienting to a Northerner, as anything above 70 degrees is hot. This time of year, I usually have to be bundled up to enjoy the sound of leaves crunching beneath my feet.

The more time I spend in Virginia and the more time I spend with Lisa, I am realizing how much life changes after you cross over the Mason-Dixon line. She grew up in Morrow, Georgia and raised her children in Tennessee. If anyone is an expert on Southern food and culture, it’s her. If there’s any question, you can open her freezer and see a prolific amount of pecans picked from her mama’s pecan tree. They will be delicious in the Salted Carmel Chocolate Pecan Pie recipe that she showed me in the most recent edition of Southern Living magazine.

According to Lisa, “Bless her little heart” is the kiss of death, especially spoken from a member of the junior league because “No good southern woman ever puts dark meat on a chicken salad.”

Also, every good southerner had a collection of “calling cards” that were handed out to visitors who stopped by to chat if you happened to be out or if you were “indisposed.”

Joseph, like me, is from the North, where you were available no matter what. There was no need for a calling card. Someone would knock on the door and come in for a cup of sugar or a beer at any time of day.  Then, they would sit on the porch and chat for a minute before you set out to accomplish your grocery list of errands.

Northerners are always on the go. We jam too many things into the day and focus more on convenience than we do on relishing in a moment. We rarely polish our silver and slow-cooked grits are never a breakfast staple.

Although I am a damn-Yankee at heart, there’s something lovely about enjoying the slow pace.  I rock on a wicker chair as I see the poplar trees wearing their best fall-attire. It’s what my mother used to call the “peak weekend” because all of the leaves have changed color, but they haven’t let go of the branches yet. They are taking their time. Even now, as the wind blows, the leaves slowly rattle. Their euphonious rustle might just be the Southern equivalent to Bruce.

Looking Past the Mundane

There are weeks when your baggage becomes too heavy to even drag across the floor.  Your soul is weary, your eyes are tired, and the very thought of pouring coffee into an earthenware mug is exhausting. Those are the weeks when you need to pull yourself away from the city and drive 20 minutes away from civilization into what my friend Joseph calls his  “fortress of solitude.”

Fredericksburg is a unique small city. It spans seven zip codes and three counties, but the city itself sits in the middle of four major highways. It’s just below Northern Virginia and so the population is very transient. Many people drive over two hours to work everyday.  I live in the historic part of town with beautiful Victorian houses and quaint coffee shops. Just a few minutes away, on the other side of the sub divisions, there are highways lined with red brake lights and orange traffic cones, like luminaries leading to the Capitol.

This morning, I force myself out of town. I take Rt 1, which is usually overflowing with DC commuters, but now serves as a gateway for minivans, ushering families to box stores in order to replenish their refrigerators. I pass plazas and strip malls, I cross over I-95 and not soon enough I am turning left onto Lisa and Joseph’s road. It’s disorienting to leave so much traffic and then drive through a tunnel of trees exploding orange and yellow. You don’t expect nature to thrive so close to the chaos.

I pass a cemetery and signs for a national park honoring Stonewall Jackson. “As a crow flies,” the house is about a mile and a half from where stonewall Jackson died. Down here, they call it a shrine. In the North, we’d just call that a memorial.  It’s just another confirmation that I’m a Damn Yankee.

The driveway curves up a hill, past the pond and lines of poplar trees that now fully welcome the colors of autumn.  The house sits on 14.63 acres and houses a 500 KV transmission distribution line, just on the other side of the pond.  On a wet day, you can sit at the house and hear the line hum. The support tower for the line is named Bessie. Sometimes we see eagles perch on the tower, but there are mostly vultures.  When I hear stories of the formerly luscious landscape with towering trees whose branches have now been replaced by wires, the irony is not lost on me.

Lisa told me about this majestic doe who has been stationing herself on the property near the house, so that she can steer clear of Virginia hunters for just a few more seasons. That deer must get it.  This place is so rejuvenating. I sit on the porch eating blackberry cobbler bread and drinking coffee with the dogs, Scooter and Bebe, vying for my attention.  For just a while, the weight of reality isn’t quite so heavy.

The air is crisp. The breeze that forces you to zip up your jacket carries with it the scent of dry leaves.  I didn’t notice that smell until I came out here. I’m sure the trees that line my street give off the same scent, but I’m always too busy to notice it.

Joseph said, “I know very little about this place because for the longest time, I just lived here, but I didn’t experience it.”

I think that’s what happens when our lives fill up too quickly with other things.  Our minds use downtime to process events, make grocery lists, contemplate the story you heard on NPR, and think of everything you could have done differently that day. Unless we really try, we can so easily overlook what is around us. 

Right now, I am able to see tall poplar trees with orange, yellow and green leaves. The branches are more sparse than they were two weeks ago. The leaves have fallen to the ground and provide a layer of underbrush that surrounds the hedges and myriad of nondescript bushes. It looks like it might rain and the sky is hazy and grey. Looking over the railing of the deck is not unlike walking through a foggy dream. 

This week was Homecoming at the school where I teach. The synergy was incredible. Each day, more and more kids dressed up. Batman, Scorpion, Kim Possible, and Wonder Woman brought justice to the halls. The “tacky tourists” led excursions through groups of freshmen, as if they were on an African safari. If you had been too focused on paperwork or standardized tests, you could have missed the whole thing.

On Friday before the pep-rally, the seniors wore togas and paraded around the building like they owned the place. They still did all of their work, but they were able to really have fun, too. Despite vocabulary quizzes and essays, my students were able to produce deep belly laughs. They were so giddy they didn't have to force it.  The kids were so proud of the school and even themselves. They wore old sheets, turquoise sequined fabric, dining room curtains, and even camouflage. They walked around with purpose. In the bleachers during the pep-rally, they cheered and clapped and laughed. They lived fully in the moment. Some took pictures, but most of them were enjoying themselves too much to even whip out their I-phones. As "the wave" passed through the stands, over a sea of blue and gold, I couldn't help but envy their joy-de-vivre. 

This week, I want to channel their excitement. I want to really smell the leaves. I want to feel the cold, crisp fall air. I want to touch the bark on trees. I want to walk down the street without listening to voicemails, reading emails, or checking text messages. Sometimes, we need to break out of the mundane in order to see beauty more clearly. My students needed Spirit Week to remember the great parts about their school. I needed to be rejuvenated by dear friends and a beautiful place to remember how incredibly blessed I am. The thing is, even when life is gruesome, if you take the time to look through the fog, you can still see so much beauty. 

Indian Summer

It’s 80 degrees and sunny- the glow that shines between the branches of the trees is a reminder of the struggle: nature is trying to hold onto summer as fall encroaches. In just a few weeks, the branches will be bare. The leaves will have fought the good fight and will have accepted defeat.

For now, in Virginia, we’re experiencing something called Indian Summer. It’s muggy and humid, despite the fact that we’ve already celebrated the autumnal equinox. Nature isn’t ready to give it up.

I took a stroll around the house this afternoon. Mums and pansies of various autumnal hues have replaced summer annuals.  The regal purples, the cheerful golds, and the vibrant oranges stand in place of the bright colors and pastels from just a few weeks ago. All the while, crispy leaves, cacophonous under my ballet flats, cry out to the other leaves to hold on to the branches for just a while longer. This is that weird time of autumn when nature can’t decide what to do. It’s as though it’s fighting to hold onto summer even though winter is coming.

A gust of wind blows and something like 20 leaves fall to the ground. Only about 1/3 of the poplar leaves are now yellow, many remain green. They cling so intently to the idea of summer.

But isn’t that what we’re supposed to do sometimes- hold onto something with all we’ve got?  

In life, we find something of value- a goal, a job, a city, a friend, or even a lover, and we slowly uncover the depths of its beauty. We see its goodness and accept its flaws. If something jeopardizes its longevity, we fight to preserve the thing we have grown so fond of. There’s a part of us that craves nostalgia, another part that struggles to accept change, and probably another part that fears what the new chapter may look like. When we stand in front of eminent decay, we have to wonder if life and beauty will ever come back, or if we are destined to live a life like a tree stripped of its leaves.

My friend Faith teaches high school biology. She’s teaching her students about photosynthesis and was chatting me up about leaves earlier today. I asked her why the chloroplasts stopped producing chlorophyll in autumn. She told me about light energy allowing plants to make sugar, but not all of the green wavelengths are used, so the color that is reflected to our eyes.

In the fall, the plants retreat inward because there isn’t enough light. The leaves salvage what they can. The utilitarian pigments break down and are used and what’s not being absorbed is reflected to our eyes. She said, “Even nature preserves what it can for as long as possible.”

Some of us like to prolong the inevitable. There’s something decadent about savoring the last few moments of something. It’s like watching a candle flicker just before the flame dies- it’s dramatic and sad all at once. We want to preserve the things that bring us great joy, even if we know that they have an expiration date.

Although many of us have pulled out sweaters and faded flannel shirts, in preparation of a wardrobe shift, and stocked our shelves with cinnamon and a myriad of pumpkin products, Indian Summer makes sense to those of us who have fought to preserve something. This warm weather is nature’s last attempt to assert herself. It’s going to be one of the final times this year that she can cling to warm weather before it’s frost season.

I would prefer to be wearing boots and leggings. My frizzy hair would like a less humid day.  I would rather order a warm tea instead of one over ice. But, this week as I try to hold on to some things for a little longer, I’ll sympathize with Mother Nature and enjoy one last burst of summer.