Falling Leaves: The First of November

Falling Leaves

Now in November, the leaves are falling,

holding the spirit of other seasons—

springtime and summer—then tinctured by frost,

an intimation of winter to come.

Falling leaves are casting whisper shadows

in the gloaming, bearing the remembrance

of that day, the first day of November,

when time was broken, silhouette dissolved.

A ginkgo leaf, golden and tremulous,

released by sky-breeze, spiraling to earth.

And falling leaves bring light and memory

of you, walking through the world—then running—

with purpose, with passion, integrity,

and gentle humor—something of your smile.

You, contemplating the majestic oak, 

wonder and wisdom in equal measure.

Fallen leaves are drifting across the trail.

Sometimes a single leaf catches the eye—

dusted saffron, veined crimson, dappled rust—

and we collect it, carry it forward—

and we walk with you, always and again.

Falling leaves in this bittersweet season—

Falling leaves in this beautiful season.

—B.

What messages do the falling leaves carry to us? For many, leaves dropping from the trees represent loss and finality, but a deeper look tells a bigger story. Each spring, deciduous trees grow leaves to nourish themselves. For half of a year, the leaves work hard feeding the tree using their chlorophyll. This green pigment captures the exact spectrum of sunlight needed to drive energy-producing photosynthesis. Through the summer sun and rain, chlorophyll is so abundant in a leaf that its green color dominates all the other pigments.

As the days grow shorter and sunlight is less available, chlorophyll production decreases. Without its chlorophyll, the leaf’s other pigments finally have their chance to shine through, revealing the colors of autumn— and some would say, the trees’ truest colors. Trees recognize when their leaves are exhausted, and in their ancient wisdom, they release hormones that seal the weary leaves off from the rest of the tree. Free from work for the first time, each leaf can now catch a ride on the wind to its next destination. The tree continues on, carrying its story forward to the next season—but ever-growing, forever changing. —D.

In any given tree’s life cycle—as in every being’s life cycle—each action leads to another, creating constant growth and change.  As life forms interact, they synchronize with other lives, species, and the cycles of nature. So it is with each of us. Day by day, season by season, we impact other beings in the ways we choose to spend (or not spend) our energy. We make decisions on what we will nurture, what we will neglect, what we will work for, and what we will fight against.

 

Autumn is a prime time to assess the landscape, both real and metaphorical, and reflect on the consequences of our choices. Take inspiration from the falling leaves to contemplate. Over the past season, where have you been focusing your precious energy? What seeds have you planted? What has demanded your care and attention? What is your harvest—the outcome of your efforts? What has happened that took you by surprise? What impact have you had on the people and things that matter most to you? As you look to the seasons ahead, what changes do you want to make in your current practices? Even if you might never see the results, what hopes would you have for your spring garden?  What investment might you make now to prepare for that? —D.

from Peace is Every Step: 

I asked the leaf whether it was frightened because it was autumn, and the other leaves were falling. The leaf told me, ‘No. During the whole spring and summer I was completely alive. I worked hard to help nourish the tree, and now much of me is in the tree. I am not limited by this form. I am also the whole tree.’

—Thich Nhat Hanh, 1926-2022, Buddhist monk and peace activist 

Pawpaw Tree: Home beneath Canopy

The path to Schull's Rock is straightforward but not especially straight. While it's benevolently flat and clearly marked with gold-blazed posts and placards, the trail twists and turns and traverses a patchwork of river hill terrain—passing through parcels of woodland, skirting the perimeter of several cornfields, and following meadow fringes dancing with late-season wildflowers, butterflies, and bees on a mild and happily uncomplicated September morning. 

We find the overlook as we have in other seasons: an ancient, exposed rock, tilt-perched high above the Susquehanna, with panoramic views in cardinal directions. Beyond the initial simplicity of rock, river, and sky, a varied and complex world unfolds before us. Looking north, there is Shocks Mill Bridge spanning the river, the smokestacks of Brunner Island, and Three Mile Island on distant upstream horizon; looking south, there are pockets of commerce and industry typical of historic Susquehanna River towns—Marietta—then Wrightsville and Columbia around the bend; and to the east, there is Lancaster County's rich, rolling farmland. We cannot see forever from this dizzying precipice, but we catch a glimpse of shared history, of an always-evolving story—and a broader sense of home.

We turn from the overlook, retracing the trail into deep green September wood. This is where pawpaw trees grow—rising from forest floor in the company of mushrooms and fungi, ferns and mosses, beneath a mosaic of maple, poplar and oak. Even though we had a hot, dry summer—conditions that linger into early autumn days—it's remarkably cool and moist beneath the canopy. While our reading assures us that the pawpaw is a native tree and a common sight along eastern hiking trails, we've observed that it has a tropical air—and a bit of a renegade attitude—about it. Before we go too far in declaration that pawpaws are fiercely independent, we note that the trees seem to flourish in patches, with sturdy, intertwined branches and connected root systems; from our passerby vantage, we often can't tell where one ends and another begins. In time, we've learned something of the pawpaw—and something from the pawpaw: how it takes care of itself in the moment and across the seasons, not getting ahead or falling behind itself, holding its place in light and shadow—how it forms closely-knit colonies beneath the canopy. There is a sense of community here—and something like home—for the sweet nonconformists of the understory. —B.

Pawpaws

how barren branches

embrace the solemn winter

from stillness to thaw—

yielding to flower,

nurturing a swallowtail

in modest spring breeze—

how summer-drape leaves

fan to capture filtered light

beneath canopy—

like contemplation,

and in the days before frost

offering whimsical fruit,

sweet custard-apples--

how autumn enfolds,

rime-gilding each leaf

with gold illumination

and burnished russet—

across the seasons,

how hidden roots intertwine

in colony—transforming

the understory

to something like home.

—B.

The canopy of the forest—the cover created by the leaves atop the tallest trees—is a place of majesty, awe, and glory. But the pawpaw tree (Asimina triloba) has evolved for life in the understory—the land below the canopy, where it is darker, more humid, less celebrated, but no less magical. Pawpaw trees, native to eastern North America, have been unobtrusively thriving in the understory for over ten thousand years, overlooked by many along the way. A relatively small tree, the pawpaw rarely grows higher than fortyfeet, keeping it far below the soaring branches of others in the forest. With its large, simple, un-tasty leaves, it repels deer and looks almost tropical. Its common name may have sprung from confusion, as Spanish-speaking colonists mistook it for the Central American papaya tree.  When the tree flowers, it will likely drive away humans and most predators with its smell—a bit like rotten flesh. That aroma is a clever tactic, because the pawpaw is self-incompatible, unable to pollinate itself or its nearby relatives. The flowers’ stench appeals to carrion-eating beetles and flies who arrive with pollen from faraway sources.

 

Pawpaw flower, photo from Susquehanna National Heritage Area, susqnha.org.

The pawpaw tree is also attractive to the striking zebra swallowtail butterfly—it is one of very few trees on which the butterfly will lay its eggs. The butterflies gain protection from their own predators when they eat the pawpaw leaves and become equally foul-tasting. The pawpaw tree bears fruit in late summer and early fall. Its fruit is not exactly beautiful, looking a little like a green potato. Inside, the flesh is yellow-orange, soft and custard-y. Unlike the smell and the taste of the pawpaw’s leaves, the fruit is often described as a singular treat—a cross between banana, guava, and mango. Pawpaw trees are too thin to climb, but the fruit will fall to the ground when ripe, so the savvy harvester knows to pick them up, not pluck them down. You won’t find pawpaws widely available in grocery stores—they ripen, bruise, and perish quickly. Pawpaws are a favorite of birds, raccoons, opossums, and squirrels, so you’d better move fast if-and-when you happen upon them. You may find yourself joining the ranks of many others in appreciating the understated, unpretentious, unassuming pawpaw of the understory.  —D.

The pawpaw tree may flourish in the shadows, but we humans are hard-wired to seek social attention and validation. From birth, positive attention from others activates the reward centers in our brains, releasing dopamine and other chemicals that make us more likely to repeat socially approved behaviors. When our needs for survival are generally met, most of us grow comfortable living with moderate amounts of attention from those we care about most. When we feel threatened or anxious, however, our desire for attention can become unbalanced. Social media complicates the situation even more. Comparing ourselves to others we know – and those we don’t know—24/7 easily overwhelms the human nervous system. 

It’s not surprising to find a strong correlation between time spent on social media sites, depression, and anxiety. These feelings can lead to a preoccupation with online exchanges, and destructive behavior like oversharing, exaggerating, and intentionally provoking conflict. Most importantly, online attention-seeking takes precious time and energy away from our relationships offline. Take some inspiration from the pawpaw tree and spend some time in the understory of social media. The next time you feel an overwhelming desire to post online, resist the urge. Ground yourself in the present moment and give yourself some attention. Practice mindfulness. Close your eyes and listen to your own breathing. Notice things around you that bring you peace. Reach out and talk in real time to someone that you love. —D. 

Pickin’ up the paw paw and puttin’ it in the basket

Way down yonder in the paw paw patch.

—Appalachian Folk Song, author unknown

Great Blue Heron: Feather and Balance

We are following a familiar path along Pequea Creek in Southern Lancaster County on an early September morning, the sky suspended equably between two seasons. Streaming sunlight continues to hold the warmth of summer and yet, wrapped within that light, there's a mellow glow reminding us that autumn draws nearer, day by day.  As we walk beneath breeze-stirred sycamore, birch, and a favorite weeping willow, I say—as I often say when we're walking by water—I hope we see the great blue heron. The... a definite article merges all of the great blue herons we have seen across the miles and through the seasons into one. Somehow, in my mind's eye, the large, exquisitely feathered wading bird of shore and open water, of streams and rivers and wetlands, has become a connecting force—sometimes a sign, sometimes a symbol—of balance, reflection, and stillness.

The trail rounds a long, sweeping bend in the creek, and there we spy it: the morning's great blue heron. Perched on a tumble of detritus and debris collected from recent rains, the great blue heron seems the color of water mingled with the color of sky—mist gray and rippling azure feathers—slate plume and slender legs, watchful eyes—elegantly poised between blending in and standing out—the spirit of reflection.

Across miles and many seasons: we have seen the great blue heron in springtime, wading amidst water lilies on a cool mountain lake; in summertime, tracing a path through the shallows of a balmy, algae-covered pond; in autumn, perching on a partially submerged log, angled light tinging water and leaves teal blue and lime green; and in winter, pensively hunched on river ice, braced against the chill-flowing Raritan River. We've seen the great blue heron fishing in rushing rapids of the Susquehanna near Shocks Mill Bridge, and we've seen it in breathtaking flight over a freshwater pond at Cape May Point. So lovely in flight and yet, this morning, we wish the great blue heron would stay here on Pequea Creek, here in September light and shadow. The bird is moving, flexing with each step-by-considered-step before assuming a quiescent stance. It is watching, it is waiting, and in time, the great blue heron extends purposefully and catches a small fish. We trace a deliberate swallow down its long, graceful neck. And then, as September sky wavers between two seasons, the great blue heron returns to feathered stillness for a time of balance and reflection as we continue on our winding trail. — B.

Great Blue Heron

 wading

through morning in ancient waters,

cloaked in mist, draped in sky,

placing one lissome foot,

then another—

waiting

in the shallows,

then across the seasons—

the way of the heron

is feather, reflection,

and balance

to stillness.

— B.

The great blue heron (Ardea herodias) is commonly found throughout the United States. It is an ancient species--the blue heron fossil record dates back almost two million years, and records of the heron family date back millions of years before that. The blue heron is a manifestation of stability, balance, and calm. It can adapt to all kinds of environments—marshes, woodland streambeds, ponds, oceans, even deserts--if it is near a reliable source of water. It is the largest heron found in North America, standing up to four feet high, yet weighing in at only 5-6 pounds, mostly due to its light, hollow bones. Its distinctive anatomy allows the bird to walk with grace and elegance through shallow water and over rough obstacles in the terrain. A patient bird, it rarely lifts a second foot until the first one is planted.

The blue heron is well practiced in stealth, spending almost all its waking hours hunting for food. With excellent night vision, it can walk and stalk, day or night. The blue heron is no picky eater, its prey including small mammals, fish, frogs and toads, reptiles, even other birds. It lives its life slowly and deliberately, sometimes migrating to warmer climates in the winter, and sometimes choosing to stay put. When it finds harmony in its environment, a blue heron can live up to 25 years. Knowing this, Algonquin peoples hold a tradition of The Way of the Heron, a method for establishing understanding, mediation, and justice in community. — D.

Think about balance as equilibrium. When we stand on one foot, we often are not still.  When we start to fall left, we adjust to the right; when we start to fall back, we lean front. In our bodies, in our lives, in all of nature, it’s easy to take balance for granted until it is lost. Hatha yoga is a practice designed to help balance body, mind, and spirit—and it’s not just about standing on one foot. Take some inspiration from the blue heron and seek stability. Mountain pose (tadasana) is one of the foundational poses of hatha yoga, and it is an easy, accessible start to improving your posture, breath, and mood. To come into mountain pose, stand up tall with your arms hanging comfortably at your sides. Breathe naturally and steadily. Keep your feet together, or hip-width apart; either way, feel all the weight of your feet pressing firmly on the ground. Tuck your lower back in slightly. Pull your shoulders back a bit and relax them downward. Try to keep your head, heart, and pelvis in vertical alignment. Take a deep breath in and feel your lower abdomen push outward. Exhale and feel your abdomen contract. Now take a simple flow (or vinyasa). 

With a deep breath in, raise your arms up overhead to the sky, keeping your palms facing inwards. Imagine there is energy coming up from the earth, flowing up the front of your body.  Lower your arms slowly as you exhale. With the exhale, imagine there is energy moving down the back of your body, from your head to the earth, grounding you. Take two more slow, deep breaths in and out, raising and lowering your arms, imagining the energy flowing with your breath. Pause and notice how you feel. Reset your mountain pose and repeat as often as you like. — D.

To walk in The Way of the Heron, one has to be at peace with oneself, even prepared to meet the Creator in the spirit world.

—Evan Pritchard, 1955-present, Mi’kmaq descendant and Algonquin scholar