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November is departing the year with a grand flourish: it is snowing. Though very beautiful, most of this November has more or less fit the description Emily Dickinson once gave it, “A few prosaic days/A little this side of the snow/And that side of the haze.” Then this day arrives, a day of gentle flurries and white-frosted pastures, of the unexpected and the extraordinary. I can think of no more perfect day on which to bid farewell to autumn and usher in the beautiful season of Advent than this crystalline, frosty, very far from prosaic day.  It sifts from leaden sieves,/It powders all the wood, |
| | The ground is hard, | And yet the world, | |
- John Updike, November
The tall brown stalks of ironweed and brown-eyed susans (Rudbeckia triloba) are all topped with lovely, prickly seed heads this time of year, and while walking this morning I began to gather a few. Then I stumbled upon a cluster of wild hydrangeas (Hydrangea arborescens) still covered in tiny dried, four-petaled flowers. Soon the beautiful colors of November's "certain loveliness" seemed to appear everywhere in the woods, as the evergreen of ceder branches, the red of rose hips, and the bright blushing pink of beautyberries (Callicarpa americana) joined the brown seed and flower heads. The wild privet (Ligustrum vulgare), whose white flowers fill one short stretch of my walking path with fragrance in the Spring, is now covered in waxy blue berries, poisonous to humans, but delectable to winter songbirds, and they, along with the glossy black berries of the edible greenbriar vine (Smilax rotundifolia), complete a picturesque wintry bouquet. A glorious autumn has ended in this thoughtful spot, and a peaceful winter has begun.
November comes
And November goes,
With the last red berries
And the first white snows.
With night coming early
And dawn coming late,
And ice in the bucket
And frost by the gate.
The fires burn
And the kettles sing,
And earth sinks to rest
Until next spring.
- Clyde Watson
And November goes,
With the last red berries
And the first white snows.
With night coming early
And dawn coming late,
And ice in the bucket
And frost by the gate.
The fires burn
And the kettles sing,
And earth sinks to rest
Until next spring.
- Clyde Watson
Usually I make my way to this thoughtful spot in the afternoon. Late in the day, when the sun is high and warm, it's pleasant to break from the happenings of the day and sit here in the woods for a while. But today it's morning, late morning, it's true, but still well before noon and quite marvelously different from my usual afternoon writing hour. The pasture above me is bright and sunny, but here at my thoughtful spot there is a peaceful sense of morning quietude.
O hushed October morning mild,/Thy leaves have ripened to the fall;
Tomorrow’s wind, if it be wild,/Should waste them all.
- Robert Frost, October
The dew hasn't quite dried in this little valley, it rests still on the rocks in the creek bank, on the drooping ferns that were hardy enough to weather last night's frost, on a few spider's webs that drape between branches, and on the deep, crackling carpet of brown leaves. The sunlight reaches this spot later in the morning than it did earlier in the year, yet with greater ease now that many of the trees are leafless, so at the moment every lingering dew drop, and the splashes from the waterfall, and the ripples in the creek sparkle in the late morning light. Across the creek from me a steady chain of diamonds is dripping from a rock ledge. My thoughtful spot is all a-twinkle, as though it has been dusted in glitter and gemstones and tiny stars.
 Dew Drops photographed by W. A. Bentley |
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From where I'm sitting I can see a bramble bush covered in tiny red rose hips (Rosa canina). These bright little herbs are one of the highest plant sources of vitamin C, and they are ready to be harvested on these cold October days and dried for use in teas and syrups throughout the winter. The wild persimmons (Diospyros virginiana) too, are ripe, and even sweeter now after a frost. While walking this morning I came across a bewildered bunch of blooming violets (Viola papilionacea), who must have mistaken these chilly, sunny days for the beginning of spring. A few of their little purple blossoms are pressing in my dictionary at the moment, waiting to be sent off in letters in the middle of winter as a cheery promise of warmer days.
Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness,
Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;
Conspiring with him how to load and bless
With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eves run;
- John Keats, To Autumn
On the edge of a field this morning I saw a lingering tassel of goldenrod (Solidago gigantea) that survived the frost. It stood out in beautifully bright yellow against the browns of the bare trees around it. Goldenrod is often accused of causing seasonal allergies, but it is actually ragweed, an unassuming little wildflower that blooms around the same time and in similar areas as goldenrod, that is the true culprit. In fact, goldenrod has been traditionally used to help reduce the symptoms of seasonal ragweed allergies. It's golden flowers can be dried and steeped as an herbal infusion, or its sweet, herbaceous, and slightly bitter flowers can infused in honey. This one last bloom however, will not be dried and turned into an herbal remedy. It is now sitting on my desk in a bright blue vase of crackled glass that sparkles when the sun hits it, a reminder of a beautiful summer.
O hushed October morning mild, / Begin the hours of this day slow.
Make the day seem to us less brief. / Hearts not averse to being beguiled,
Beguile us in the way you know... / Retard the sun with gentle mist;
Enchant the land with amethyst. / Slow! Slow!
- Robert Frost, October
The other day my 2-year-old nephew and I went for a walk. Such a walk with a little companion is always bound to be wondrous, and this one was delightfully so. We walked back and forth repeatedly over a patch of grass under the poplar tree, laughing happily as brown and yellow leaves crunched under our bare feet. We were listening to the sound of Fall. My walk here today was full of that sound, and the rustling, crackling, crunching rhythm as I trudge through leaf-covered cow paths is pleasantly companionable and familiar. The trees, too, are rustling, the drying leaves whispering to each other just before they fall. A friend once told me that there is an old word for books in a native American language that translates to "talking trees," a name derived from the sound of turning pages and this autumnal sound of wind in the leaves.
"And all at once, summer collapsed into fall."
- Oscar Wilde
Here at my thoughtful spot, the waterfall drowns out most sounds, certainly the gentle sound of rustling leaves, but not all. A woodpecker is keeping up a happy knocking on a tree across the creek from me, too far away and high up for me to tell what kind, but he's small and I see a little splash of read, so I'm guessing he's a downy. He's hopping in circles back and forth and up and down the trunk, high above me in the yellow leaves where the sunlight hits, he must be quite a happy little fellow.
"Delicious Autumn! ...if I were a bird, I would fly about
the earth seeking successive autumns."
the earth seeking successive autumns."
- George Eliot
A breeze must have blown through those treetops just now, for a marvelous dancing flurry of leaves has just fallen. They look like golden snowflakes falling so slowly, as if trying to defy gravity and enjoy their flight for as long as possible. Though I'm in deep shade here as I write, I have only to look up and the sunlight is all dappled golden above me. That canopy that was such vivid green only a month ago, is now saturated with the warmest light, the tree trunks are creamy white in the sunshine, and the leaves are every imaginable shade of yellow. Isn't it lovely that as the weather cools the colors warm?
"How wonderful yellow is. It stands for the sun."
- Vincent Van Gogh
From the Sketchbook of Beatrix Potter Between the moss and fallen leaves on the forest floor around me, dozens of miniature wonders have sprung up. Patches of delicate, pale pink Lady's Thumb are every where, its new shoots in the spring are edible, and songbirds love the seeds in the autumn. The tiniest toadstools grow in little clusters, they seem very fitting in this setting that is full of the scent of decomposing leaves and rich, damp earth warmed by a companionable and gentle sunshine. Though perhaps they would look more at home in the mists of these early autumn mornings, rather than the warmth of late afternoon. I remember learning once that Beatrix Potter, though best known for her beloved watercolors of rabbits in jackets, was a mycologist, and loved to paint fungi. She would have been very happy in this little thoughtful spot, I think, with such a plethora of interesting subjects to paint. One day I hope to distinguish with confidence between the poisonous and nutritious varieties of of these odd little plants, but for now I believe I shall content myself with attempting to sketch them in their native habitat, rather than bringing them home for dinner!
Late August is purple. I think every season has a color, though a different one in every corner of the globe. When we lived in New England, December was white, here in Tennessee it's something closer to grey. July here is a vibrant, deep, living green, but on an island in Alaska, July was the red of ever lengthening sunsets, the sort that never seem to end until they bleed into daylight. And I'm quite convinced that October will be, no matter where I live, the warmest, earthiest, coziest orange, a color that seems almost indistinguishable from the magical scent of falling leaves and sunshine and homeliness.
But, in this quiet hamlet of rural pastureland, late August is purple.
But, in this quiet hamlet of rural pastureland, late August is purple.
Time is purple, just before night, / When most people turn on the light -
But if you don't it's a beautiful sight. / Asters are purple, and there's purple ink.
Purple's more popular than you think, / It's a sort of great-grandmother to pink...
- Mary O'Neill, What is Purple?
But if you don't it's a beautiful sight. / Asters are purple, and there's purple ink.
Purple's more popular than you think, / It's a sort of great-grandmother to pink...
- Mary O'Neill, What is Purple?
Blackberries My thoughtful spot in August is resplendent with the vivid magenta of ironweed (Vernonia fasciculata) towers, and the violet-indigo of Venus' looking glass (Triodanis perfoliata), tiny star-shaped wildflowers that appear everywhere once you begin to look for them. I'm surrounded by deceptively soft explosions of lilac atop massive, prickly thistles (Cirsium vulgare), which are the gathering places of swallowtails in dancing clouds, and the occasional wandering monarch. As I walked here I harvested, to my great delight, a basket full of dainty purple and white self-heal blossoms (Prunella vulgaris), which, after several years of love and close supervision, are at last growing aplenty along the edges of the pasture. A few late-season red clover (Trifolium pratense) brighten the grass here and there with their plum-colored pom-pom blooms, and even in the last of the summer's blackberries, drooping from sturdy bramble vines over my path, there lurks in the depths of their color a royal, luxurious shade of purple.
For nearly ten years I have been wandering these same acres, each corner and valley and creek are familiar and dear, yet whenever I think I know them by heart, just then, some new discovery appears. It struck me today as I was looking for elderberry (which, now that I think of it, is rather purple too!) not far from this spot, that the sun was hitting a small level plot on the hillside I had never noticed before. Just about the size of a kitchen table, only a tiny plateau between two slopes, it is shaded by a lacy walnut tree and looks made expressly for picnicking. And here in this pleasant place I found the final addition to my purple bouquet, the downy blue mistflower (Conoclinium coelestinum). What an aptly named plant! It does indeed look as though the stems are encased in a soft lavender cloud of mist.
There's more wandering to be done this afternoon, for I'm off to try to find a vine of wild passionflowers (Passiflora incarnata). Just recently I discovered that they are the state wildflower, and their exotic firework blossoms will be the perfect complement to my basket overflowing with purple.
Perhaps I've been delighting in this magic color for a bit too long today... for as I read over this page in my notebook I begin to fear my prose themselves are turning rather purple!
Perhaps I've been delighting in this magic color for a bit too long today... for as I read over this page in my notebook I begin to fear my prose themselves are turning rather purple!
Some days are purely magical, the sun is warm and friendly, the breeze fresh and cool. But then there are days that seem, well, less than lovely, days a bit like today. That once-friendly sun is blazing down on earth with a vengeance, that refreshing breeze seems to have up and blown away, and my companions, as I sit here on the mossy rock of my thoughtful spot, are rather less fairytale-like than the flowers and damselflies that met me here only a month ago. Invisible biting flies are swarming around me and I have that irritating sensation that some tiny thing is crawling around my ankles or on my arms or behind my neck and I just can’t shake it even though I know there’s nothing there… and it’s quite maddeningly distracting.
Sometimes my thoughtful spot isn’t very conducive to thinking.
Sometimes my thoughtful spot isn’t very conducive to thinking.
Far from a wholly unpleasant moment, however, I marvel as I sit here at how much can change in the course of a month. The leaves are still green above me, the moss still vibrant below, the waterfall still tumbles down its lopsided ledge, yet there are myriad little changes that mark the past month’s events and the progress of the season. A flood swept through this creek not three weeks ago, the bank on which my seat resides has been carved out by the rushing water and the ledge has crept quite close to my feet. Further downstream the sandy gravel of the creek bed has been washed away to reveal three short, deep ledges of smooth, black bedrock. They lead upstream like steps, one could imagine they are leading to the great front gates of some formidable and ancient castle.
I walked here by a different route today. Up and over the hill of the upper pasture, through knee-deep yarrow (Achillea millefolium) and Queen Anne’s Lace (Daucus carota) and blackberry brambles (Rubus moluccanus) and Iron Weed (Vernonia fasciculata) sentinels towering straight and valiant over my head. But growing hidden in the tall grass was another familiar face - Self-heal. Prunella vulgaris, this many-blossomed member of the mint family, has been known by many names - heal-all, woundwort, heart-of-the-earth - and it truly does live up to them. It’s been revered for centuries for its powerful wound healing properties, support of the immune system, and ability to soothe sore throats and allergy symptoms. The cheery purple flowers are said to grow everywhere mankind can live. It has always seemed a quite a heroic little herb to me.
When little Elves have cut themselves, or Mouse has hurt her tail,
Or Froggie's arm has come to harm, this herb will never fail.
The fairy's skill can cure each ill and soothe the sorest pain;
She'll bathe and bind, and soon they'll find
That they are well again.
Or Froggie's arm has come to harm, this herb will never fail.
The fairy's skill can cure each ill and soothe the sorest pain;
She'll bathe and bind, and soon they'll find
That they are well again.
- The Song of the Self-Heal Fairy
Cicely Mary Barker
Across my page a procession of carpenter ants has formed an orderly line. Up my tote bag on one side, across my open journal, down to the rock on the other side, neat and precise and determined they march. And now a giant robber fly is buzzing far too close for comfort. This intimidating insect must be at least an inch long, with alarmingly large eyes, and a thin body curled forward, reminiscent of a scorpion waiting to strike… quite a terrifying creature, despite a reputation of being mostly harmless. It seems as though it’s planning to settle down here for a while, so perhaps the time has come for me to say goodbye to my thoughtful spot for today, and leave the rather interesting menagerie of other visitors to enjoy it in peace.
My thoughtful spot is a moss covered rock in a little glade on a high creek bank that brings me almost to the same level as a small waterfall, rushing now after a week of summer rain. A half-moon of jagged rock creates the ledge for this waterfall, and curves, room-like, around the shallow creek and bedrock below, but the water doesn’t fall at the center of this ledge, it is diverted to one side by what seemed to be many years' worth of collected leaves and debris. But just now, as I attempted to clear this unsightly tumble out of the water’s way, I discovered it was not made up of dead leaves and branches, but something far more fascinating. It is a great, intertwining jungle of roots from the surrounding trees, clinging fiercely to the rocks for the entire height of the ledge and reveling in a tumbling, ever present water source. So this little waterfall must remain a bit off kilter for now, and its lopsidedness will make me smile. Raindrops are still falling as I write, but a heavy canopy of deepest green keeps me, and my pages, mostly dry. The rain that does make it through the leaves makes the ferns and grasses dance every so often, and then they sparkle as though scattered with jewels in the occasional dapple of sunlight.
The first jewelweed blooms (Impatiens capensis) are just below me on the creek bank, their brilliant orange trumpet flowers nodding lazily into the water, and a trio of poison-green damselflies have been darting through and among them. If ever an artist wished to capture proof of the complementary beauty of opposites on a color wheel, this would be the scene to paint. I used to think that damselflies were female dragonflies, an association that made sense in my child’s mind, but ever since I have learned that they are in fact a distinct species, I’ve been eagerly waiting to hear about the discovery of a knight-errant fly. Granted, the name doesn’t have quite the same flow to it, but I do find this absence of so essential a protagonist in the fairy tales of the insect world rather disturbing. I suppose the dragonflies must be pleased about it, but the damselflies most assuredly agree with me. They circle close to the surface of the water, I remember reading once that they used to be called "water sniffers" for this reason, their tiny black wings beating so quickly they seem only a grey blur around their impossibly bright, iridescent bodies. The sunlight makes a tiny dancing pattern of amber gold and green as it catches the running water one moment, a damselfly the next.
"Thro' crofts and pastures wet with dew / A living flash of light he flew."
-Alfred, Lord Tennyson
The Two Voices, "Today I saw a Dragonfly"
The Two Voices, "Today I saw a Dragonfly"
A large multiflora rose bush (Rosa multiflora) is just up the slope from where I sit, passed its blooming, but the crowding white flowers have left pale green hips in their place. It’s quite easy to get to, for a bramble bush, so I’ll have to keep it in mind when the hips ripen to bright red in the autumn, and are ready to be harvested.
On my walk here I passed a flourishing elder tree (Sambucus nigra), another herb to harvest when October comes. But now this delicate tree is fully abloom, the ethereal lightness and scent of its lace-cluster petals make the legends about it easy to believe. The elder tree has a long herbal history, every part of the plant has been used medicinally, and the flowers and berries are among my favorite herbs, for they have wonderful flavors and healthful benefits to match. But the history of this herb is not only medicinal, its wood was once prized for making harps and flutes of peerless tone. An old English rhyme says that summer begins with elder flowers, and ends with elder berries, and if one waits patiently under an elder bush on midsummer’s eve, legend claims one might see fairies dancing at their midsummer’s feast.
On my walk here I passed a flourishing elder tree (Sambucus nigra), another herb to harvest when October comes. But now this delicate tree is fully abloom, the ethereal lightness and scent of its lace-cluster petals make the legends about it easy to believe. The elder tree has a long herbal history, every part of the plant has been used medicinally, and the flowers and berries are among my favorite herbs, for they have wonderful flavors and healthful benefits to match. But the history of this herb is not only medicinal, its wood was once prized for making harps and flutes of peerless tone. An old English rhyme says that summer begins with elder flowers, and ends with elder berries, and if one waits patiently under an elder bush on midsummer’s eve, legend claims one might see fairies dancing at their midsummer’s feast.
There is something very magical about a summer rain, for the air feels golden more than grey, and somehow in this gentle light every shade of green looks greener still, as though moss and grass and fern and leaves are all somehow more alive. And this afternoon, in these moss softened trees, with the cheerful call of a little waterfall and the faint, peach and honeysuckle scent of the false mimosa trees in the air, a very joyous summer has met me in this peaceful place.
Summer met me in the glade,
With a host of fair princesses,
Golden iris, foxgloves staid,
Sunbeams flecked their gorgeous dresses.
Roses followed in her train,
Creamy elder-flowers beset me,
Singing, down the scented lane,
Summer met me.
- Fay Inchfawn
Summer Met Me
Summer Met Me
