“The leaves are hardly heard, but they are heard just so much that men also, who are destined at the end to grow glorious and to die, look up and hear them falling.”
Hilaire Belloc, ‘Autumn and the Fall of Leaves’ in Hills and the Sea
No matter how busy or distracted we get, autumn still happens. Sometimes we might wish nature would stop and wait, out of deference to our over-busy schedule.
That the trees do not wait is perhaps a gentle reminder of many other things that will not wait, that call for our attending to each day.
The natural world speaks to us in so many voices. It speaks most powerfully, perhaps, when we recognize something of ourselves in it. Belloc writes of autumn as tending to unsettle us. The falling of leaves can cut a little close to the bone.
“Whatever permanent, uneasy question is native to men, comes forward most insistent and most loud at such times.”
It’s not that we have to go out in the woods and explicitly answer that permanent, uneasy question. It might be enough for us just to look up, and to listen. And to feel a little more our place in reality.
For every tree there will come a year in which its leaves will fall, never to be replaced. If the falling of leaves is poignant it is at root because human life is poignant; and a gift; something to be treasured and savored each day.
Whether we go for a walk alone, or alone with someone we love, something of who we are is waiting for us under the trees. Today.
Hilaire Belloc (1870-1953), born of a French father and English mother, was a poet, historian, and essayist.
Husband, father, and professor of Philosophy. LifeCraft springs from one conviction: there is an ancient wisdom about how to live the good life in our homes, with our families; and it is worth our time to hearken to it. Let’s rediscover it together. Learn more.
Beautiful and fitting!
Thanks Angela!
I once read a story (I’m now too old to remember when and where) about someone who loved to walk in the woods, always in the company of an unseen, unheard companion. This image stuck with me, because I, like many others, have been given the gift of walking through life in similar fashion. Perhaps when distilled down to its most elemental, universal essence, religion or spirituality is nothing more nor less than this reassuring sense of accompaniment. Thank you, Prof. Cuddeback, for your poignant reflection, so pertinent for this aging, ailing Boomer, who nears the end of his accompanied journey with a profound sense of gratitude…but also with occasional anger and continual heartsickness about what has happened to his country and the world.
Newton, I always appreciate your comments; they bespeak the richness of your life experience. Grateful again for your sharing.
Your post is beautiful Dr. Cuddeback.
Sometimes with my clients I discuss avoidance. People (including myself foremost) can avoid all sorts of things in all sorts of layers of ways. Something about walking in the woods in the fall encourages the machinations of avoidance to slide away, bringing the reality of the seasons and cycles of life more present. The process can definitely be very unsettling. Your blog has reminded me that a deeper knowing, acceptance, and even peace are present to be had in those moments when we mindfully brave the discomfort rather than taking the paved route of automaticity.
I suspect today’s blog will be with me for a while as it has reminded me of something I once knew and have been searching for frantically. Your post today has opened me to it again; I can’t thank you enough.
In my memory I now visit the golden autumn hills of Pennsylvania, private hikes, pausing, standing in purposeful stillness, allowing my heart and breath to slow and connect to the moment’s beauty, the gift of being present and then part of – time slowing — feeling the chill warmed briefly by sun’s glow through the leaves, dust and leaves reflecting, sparkling in the air, listening and hearing a distinct bird’s call, the creak of a tree – then slowing further deeper into the feeling my own smallness in the flow of eons of seasons and cycles, knowing the moment was a gift. I’m considering that the gift is always present and I have a long layered sometimes frantic habit of avoiding rather than slowing, breathing, being loved and loving in such a profound way.
Malia, This is so remarkable. I am moved once again by how what you see–rooted in what you have seen through the years–is so profound. I love how when I listen to your profound recollections it speaks to me of my own, and somehow not only brings them back to my mind, but actually makes them more real for me. Thank you so much.
Your posts almost always stir me. This one evokes some pretty nebulous thoughts so I may not do so well on this comment. This certainly involves aging or, more specifically, senescence. Having made my living for 40 years by growing plants, I certainly know about senescence. Senescence is programmed into the DNA but nature provides other things to help it along. Things like drought, fungal diseases, and even insect damage hasten senescence and we growers irrigate, spray fungicides and insecticides in an effort to delay the inevitable.
So that sets the stage a little. About 8 years ago we had to take the nursery business back from our daughter and son-in-law because they totally drained the corporate and family coffers. This lead to being pretty much estranged from these two. At that time I was a very healthy 60 year old and my wife a healthy 55. We knew we built that business from nothing and we could build it back again. The effort required was massive and required most waking hours but we did it. But after two or three years a vague feeling that I was “running out of time” would bubble up in my mind. In a very vague way I felt I didn’t have time to finish something. I didn’t know what the “something” was and I still don’t know today. I have many unfinished projects but I have been scratching some off as just not worth doing. Scratching them off didn’t make the feeling go away. In fact it intensified after I turned 65.
I’m still totally healthy as I turn 69 in a few more days. A few weeks ago my daughter (the estranged one) suddenly became very committed to taking my mother’s ashes to Vermont, (mom had been on the bookshelf since she passed on 11 years ago) and seeing the leaves turn too. (See, this does have to do with falling leaves.) She was so committed that she worked the schedules of other family members, booked plane tickets and rental car, rented a house, and took charge of the whole thing. The end result was a wonderful trip for my wife and I with our three grown children, one grandson, and Mom’s ashes. (No in-laws) We visited the town I grew up in, toured the house and barns I grew up in, showed secret hiding places to my grandson and placed Mom’s ashes in the family plot along with Dad. We bickered and picked at each other but it was all good.
On our return to Florida I was mildly surprised that the feeling of running out of time seems to have gone away. I still have many unfinished projects and instead of being able whip my weight in wildcats I now might whip my weight in playful kittens. My daughter has actually hired me to help in her trucking company and, while I’m sure the little she pays me won’t empty the coffers of that company, I have a paycheck that does not depend on avoiding senescence in plants.
Dick
Dick, What a blessing. What an amazing story. In your retelling I can feel the cool crisp air of Vermont, and even more, the warmth of your family deepening your bonds with one another. May the bonds only deepen, even if your plants slip further away…
Wow, today was a beautiful day, mostly sunny and high 60’s and as usual, I took a walk in my park (in the woods) and said my rosary. Subconsciously I was thinking some of the thoughts I just read in your delightful and thoughtful post. I DO enjoy walking with someone but even more enjoy walking with my thoughts, whether it be in the park (woods) or on the beach. Or most any other place
Keep on walking, Ginger, and enjoy the blessings of this season!
Thank you so much for this lovely and eloquent reminder…
You are welcome, Abi!