Purpose

It was one of those perfect English autumnal days which occur more frequently in memory than in life.
(P. D. James)

It was a glorious afternoon, breezeless and stationary but with cool, tolerable temperatures, too cold for a t-shirt but too warm for a jacket. The windows had been left open and the sun allowed to bless the cats with the warm squares it made on the carpet. The sleepless leaves, damp and nearly quiet in the morning but crisp and loud underfoot in the afternoon, stayed where they'd landed, stirred only by our passing.  It was a day for walking and breathing, inhaling the dark, almost-musty fragrance of the earth and the cinnamon scent of tree bark. There were birds, too, settled in the lush stillness of the branches, singing softly, quietly, as though whispering through a church service. Even the squirrels were cautious and respectful in their steps, bounding along from one bald spot in the grass to another, afraid that any sound would bring back yesterday's cold and the turbulence we endured over the weekend.

But Duncan could care less. Duncan, who loves all things, especially the seasons, threw himself into the world with an open, generous spirit, unafraid of the consequences of the autumnal music he made. I lingered behind, watching him prance and play, his tail stirring up contrails of leaves behind him, his nose pushing paths through them. His love of the world, its mysteries and gifts, is a remarkable thing to witness. Even the sun seemed to pause in the sky to savor the sight of him. He turned a corner and vanished from my view so I hurried to catch up with him, the sudden silence of The Glen ahead unnerving. But there he was, resting on the hillside waiting for me, his head cocked, his eyes bright, everything about him asking me why I took my time, why I didn't gallop beside him through the bounties of the world, why I chose to take pictures and whistle softly instead of spin as madly as he.

 

So I laid down beside him, tucked my camera into my pocket and rolled down the hill, pulling the leaves around and behind me while he for once followed, his paws dancing in the air behind me as though pushing me forward.

His pleasure is all I need. And on afternoons such as this, my pleasure seems to his sole purpose.

A Night Like Tonight

I could go crazy on a night like tonight
When summer's beginning to give up her fight
And every thought's a possibility
And voices are heard, but nothing is seen
Why do you spend this time with me
May be an equal mystery.
(Indigo Girls, "Mystery")

We had a late walk––a delicious walk––with children running to Dunc to pat his back and scratch his chin, a vivid tangerine sunset followed by night so dark and clear it seemed we could see faces smiling back at us from the planets above. We played fetch around the few vendor trailers and kiosks which are beginning to arrive for this weekend's Summerset festival, and the air was sweet in a way that it hasn't been for weeks. At the end of August David commented that the world was weary of Summer; the flowers had withered, the air was stagnant and exhausted and even the sky seemed bleached and weary of the season. "Enough already," he sighed. But I wish he had been there tonight in the park with us, where pockets of sweet coolness hung above the fields and the candied breeze somehow smelled of Russian Olives and Lindens, Spring and mint all at once. Duncan chased his ball tirelessly and then rolled in the thick grass with a vigor he reserves for snow and wind. On a night like tonight Summer seems to want to last forever and I want nothing more than to throw my arms around it and beg it to carry us southward with it, dancing under the skies of stars and singing songs only the crickets know by heart.

It was one of those perfect English autumnal days which occur more frequently in memory than in life. (P.D. James)

Hillside

"What man can stand with autumn on a hilltop and fail to see the span of his world and the meaning of the rolling hills that reach far to the horizon?" (Hal Borland)

This afternoon the northwest side of the park and the lower field were blessedly clear of the usual brightly clad darting soccer-kids and their milling, indifferent parents. Duncan and I had crossed Bowles, tromping over the fallen leaf bodies in the curb to weave through the gathered crowds. Once on the far side of the queen willow, holding court over the tall reeds and cattails bowing and bending low at her feet, the field opened up before us like an unexpected sanctuary. The elms on its western edge have long since given up their Autumn struggle and looked bony and sickly, almost obscene against the faraway hollow blue of the mountained sky. But the field spread before us long and green and the maples and cottonwoods ringing her other boundaries were full and bloated with color. We spent much of last winter there playing in refuge from the wind at the base of its low hill, but there has been little reason to visit it since. There are places in the world which are meant almost strictly for specific times and seasons and it seems I have found another. Duncan was lucky enough to find a good, solid throwing stick which he preferred to gnaw upon rather than chase, and so I unrolled myself out on the ground, rested my head among the tall blades of grass which, at this time of year, feel cold and damp, even if they are not, slipped my hands behind my head and watched the sky move as only Autumn skies do, swiftly and with unknown purpose, clouds spread haphazardously about, mingling as indifferent as strangers among each other. Defying their nature they did not blend or merge and grow indistinguishable, like people in a crowd, but moved cautiously, revolving around one another, like drops of oil in water. From where I watched, my glorious red dog chipping away on the fractured femur of a maple branch with his diligent and purposeful teeth, the fuzzy, almost transparent clouds made impressions in the sky like the fleshy undersides of alabaster baby feet dipped in heavy cream. My fingers, restless worms, tubed through the grass on the hill above my head, blind eyes seeking contact, catching and crunching the few stray leaves which had fallen in the hours since the park's grounds crew had mulched them en masse earlier in the day. My hand fell upon an elm twig, pliable and green at the place where it had broken free of the rest of the tree, its skin still tender and warm with ridges heavy and knuckled like the bony finger of an old woman, the kind of thing I imagine Gretel offered to the witch who wanted only to fatten up her and Hansel before making a dinner of them. My fingers rejoiced in its texture and weight and because I did not use my eyes, did not commit its color and speckled skin to memory, I knew it as intimately and as fully as a lover's body, traced and caressed under the silken sheets of midnight.

And this, I suppose, is what I love most about this bittersweet season, that even though The Universe placates our fear and apprehension with explosions of color, so much more is offered through its scents and sounds, the feel of it on the skin of our faces and hands, the whispering of the leaves dancing down the street, the sweet, pungent flavor of the wind on our tongues. This is the time to close our eyes and feel our most alive, to remember and burn our brightest, rejoice in the beating of our hearts.

"It was one of those perfect... autumnal days which occur more frequently in memory than in life." (P.D. James)