November
1, 2021
Greetings
from the transition,
Looking
from my living room I could see the fog gathered around the streetlight, a living
shroud, gathering and ebbing in the arc of white. The world beyond that, already held in place
by the darkness, was invisible behind the ghostly curtain. I sipped my coffee, idled by the glass, not ready
to push into that dark world, and not willing to wait for it to change.
When
I ran from my driveway, the fog moved, never seemed to be where I was. The morning, still imitating night, partnered
with the mist to hide the color I was accustomed to. Even the shapes of the trees were obscured in
gray gauze. I felt the clothes on me, and
the fabric felt foreign against all my skin. The chilled air picked at the
places that weren’t covered, made my teeth ache with the first breaths. In my mind I muttered a silent gripe.
This
morning, now a week later, I realize what I have been witnessing. Somehow the shift had eased past me, I had
adjusted to the change without really acknowledging it. I had my eyes on other things, the minutiae of
living, and the days danced away. Writing
the date at the top here gave it a firm sense of finality. Somehow the seasons shifted without
consulting me, or even looking back to urge me to catch up.
Summer
pulled on its off-season clothes; the bits of color in the trees, the cool
rainy afternoon, the wind pressing carbon clouds lower on the horizon. And the dark.
On
other Sunday mornings, I didn’t need to look at the clock to know it was time
to go, to meet the sunrise. I would be
on my deck, smelling the morning, seeing the false dawn, the color growing in
the grass, the leaves. I would
know. That morning, somehow a week ago, was
different. Not a complete surprise, more
of a recognition of what I sensed, and somehow ignored.
I
wore lights on my hands, and the white circles danced in front of me as I ran. I watched for the cracks I already knew, the
potholes, and the clusters of walnuts that conspired to twist tendons or wrench
tired muscles. The sound of my breath,
muted a little by the knit cap over my ears, paired with the chuff of my shoes
on the pavement, the only sound in the dark.
I
heard the deer moving in the woods near the road, knowing they would wait for
me to pass before coming up the damp bank to cross behind me. I wound my way through town and onto the path
that followed the river, impossibly darker now, as the forest closed in around
me and the weak light of the streetlights dissolved.
I
could hear the water play against the rock, happy to be lifted by the rain, tickling
new heights on the bank, touching trees and rocks kept dry all summer. Ducks splashed behind the dim curtain,
skittering along the water squawking terse duck sentences to each other.
I
chided myself for letting the days slip by, again, and searched in my weak
memory for when the last day of summer was.
September? The path serpentined
between the trees, mimicking the river that chuckled in the dark behind the trees
and shrubs that lined the blackness, invisible except in my memory.
It
is strange to write, but I felt the ache of grief, missed the color and shape
of the woods, the blue sky filtering in from the canopy above us. Suddenly aware of its absence, I missed the
warm air on my summer skin. Foolish man,
to let that pass unnoticed, unremarked.
I felt like I missed a friend’s birthday.
Nature,
in Her kindness, showed compassion, and without me asking for it, gave me
something to fill the void I was worrying larger in my core.
The
trees above the path opened enough for me to see the sky, to see the fog had separated
to show a few slivers of stars, and the pale white light of the moon, somewhere
just out of sight. I am smiling as I write
this, just as I did in that moment. I
turned off my lights and glided in the inky dark.
I
ran up the rise onto a bridge that spans the river, the boards slippery with dew,
the iron was a dark latticework on either side of me. I stopped and looked upriver, saw the banks
pulling the mist up like a blanket, softly lit by the glow behind me. I turned and leaned on the rusty railing and
looked up to see the glow of the moon, nearly alone in the velvet dome.
In
the sky it was a nearly perfect disc. In
the river below it was slivers of silver and white, dancing in the texture of
the living water. The same light from ninety-two
million miles away, different shining on the moon and different again in the
water and different again in my eyes. And
the same.
My heart was
beating in my ears. I could feel it in
my throat, pulsing in the arteries, thunk thunk thunk in my wrists, in my
legs. I could hear my breathing, a slower
counter point to the heart’s incessant demand.
Whiiish. Thunk. Thunk. Thunk. Whiiish. Thunk. Thunk.
It is a
pleasure to feel your body work in this way, a miracle of sorts. I could feel my heart slowing, feel it in my
chest and every place it echoes in my body.
The metronome eased slightly, but just enough so I could tell. And then a little more.
Be grateful,
She said. You miss the color and the
warmth, and I give you this etched in living, black and white and silver. I give you this air, cooled by snow you will
never see, to make you into something else.
In an hour the sun will be here to show you colors to take your breath
away. I paused you here, She said,
leaning into my eyes, so you could see this, and so you could feel that life in
your chest. And be grateful.
And
I was. And I am.
I
ran through the park and saw the light become a fall morning, with its own
color of peach and gold and taupe. The
trees shyly presented their first fall wear, still wrapped in webs of fog. I made my way up the bluff to look over the
river again, the moon gone now, and saw the color I was promised, felt what I
was meant to feel.
Summer,
with all that I love, I carry with me in each season. What I have to learn, each year it seems, is
that in the moments between one summer and another, there is this powerful beauty,
which is someone else’s favorite season, probably for good cause. My lesson, which I happily accept again, is
to see the beauty in this day, no matter the season, and be grateful.
Hope
this finds you searching for it,
David
Copyright
© 2021 David Smith
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