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  When I hear stories of the formerly luscious landscape with towering trees whose branches have now been replaced by wires, the irony is not lost on me.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.