Letting Go

Fireflies, false sunflowers, and the apple tree that gave its all

I had to look twice. Yes, indeed. It was a wooly bear caterpillar crawling on our kitchen table placemat. Maybe it hitched a ride into our warm house with the mail?

As September slipped into October, the coneflowers had faded. The vivid phlox and their sweet scent lingered for a while, and the false sunflower carried on, pretending as if the season could be suspended in time. The wooly bear’s appearance made it harder to deny the end of autumn.

Then the combines began to roll, slowly but surely uncovering the undulating contours of the naked land. Was it time to let go? In spring, hope springs eternal, but how do we hold onto our hope in autumn?

Recent years have inflicted enduring loss to our landscape. A powerful late July windstorm moved through, splitting the beautiful, hardy Hackberry that grew to maturity along with our children. Its removal left a gaping wound on the front lawn, and allowed the harsh August sun to scorch the hosta leaves and beat down on our home. Only time, and winter’s freezing and thawing, and heaving, followed by spring’s saturation of the soils, would settle the forsaken ground, settling the stage for new grass to grow. Patience . . . and a long game plan.

The following spring, out of the blue one morning, a thunderous boom brought me to my feet as I worked at my office computer. An enormous limb from the Chinese Elm on the north side of our house had landed on the attached garage and second story roof directly above my head. Luckily only the shingles were damaged, and not the structure. But the remaining tree would be unstable and unsafe.

Soon we had a gaping eyesore on the opposite side of our home, exposing the shade-loving hostas and lilies of the valley to the harsh glare of summer.

Next came a stealth attack on the western front: a water line had broken, and the backhoe and trenching would be perilously close to the flowering crab apple planted long ago on Mother’s Day.

Regardless of this upheaval, spring was undeterred.

One morning I stepped out on to the deck, and did a doubletake. Four fluffy orange tabby kitties were curled up amidst the iris, just south of the deck. Each day afterwards, I looked for them, and their mamma, watching them grow. I rediscovered the delight of kittens running, playing, and tussling with one another.

The promise of spring was unfolding all around me: the crocus, tulips, creeping phlox, and peonies, followed by the lilies, Siberian iris, and the redbud.

Nature’s show led me astray

This spring we planted grass seed on the scarred earth in the south lawn, the final phase of saying good-bye to the beloved Hackberry.

A landscaping plan was made to re-imagine the overgrown north garden. The barren spot where the Chinese Elm had fallen would have to wait. It was time again to cultivate patience

.

By late August fireflies began their leave-taking, closing the curtain on their magical light-shows. Was it time to let go of the butterflies and the riot of summer color and embrace the fragility of autumn’s beauty? The late summer breezes whispered to me, and I leaned in, surprised to hear Wordsworth’s words:

“What though the radiance which was once so bright

Be now for ever taken from my sight,

Though nothing can bring back the hour

of Splendour in the grass, of glory in the flower,”

I ignored it. Surely there was plenty of time before following his advice to “find strength in what remains behind”.

Finally, after the ground had settled, and the flowering crab apple seemed to have survived the earth-moving onslaught, it was time to restore the lawn and landscape beneath it.

Before long, it was apple picking time. A spring storm had snapped the branches of the dwarf apple tree south of our driveway. Although I wanted to remove the broken branches to tidy up the view, my husband said there were blossoms. We mowed around it all summer. Soon there were small green apples, and eventually the apples reddened. Not perfect apples. But the tree had borne fruit, despite its brokenness. It was a small wonder.

The black walnuts fell to the ground. One afternoon I thought I heard autumn’s swan song. Surely not yet.

Ignoring tasks left undone

The green leaves of the burning bush outside the kitchen window began their brazen transformation to a vibrant red. The Sweet Autumn clematis canopy camouflaged the ladders of the backyard play equipment, transforming it into a trellis of white blossoms in memorial to child’s play.

By early October the New England aster claimed the limelight to show off its purple glory. Was it the beneficiary of sunlight bequeathed by the fallen Chinese Elm?

Added sunlight also amped up the aging amur maple hedge. One night, returning home at sunset, the crimson colors took my breath away.

This canvas of autumn colors distracted me from winter cares and worries. Memories fluttered past my mind’s eye as I worked in the yard. For a fleeting moment at dusk, I saw two young girls laughing and jumping in piles of leaves, encircled by jack o’lantern leaf bags. I rubbed my eyes, and the image evaporated as swiftly as the passage from childhood. I thought again of tasks left undone in the yard, volunteer mulberry trees in the lilacs, and the broken yard gate. My good intentions now were turning into diminished expectations.

What else was I leaving undone?

After Apple - Picking

“My long two pointed ladder’s sticking through a tree

Toward heaven still,

And there’s a barrel I didn’t fill

Beside it, and there may be two or three

Apples I didn’t pick upon some bough.

But I am done with apple-picking now.

Robert Frost

Keeping the faith

We left on family vacation for eight days in mid-October, and when we returned, I looked for the orange tabby kittens and their mamma. A couple of barn cats wandered onto our deck, but the kittens and their mamma had vanished. Although I knew their days of kittenish play, and adorable fuzzy faces were numbered, I’m sad they could so easily leave us behind.

By now there was a chill in the air, and late arriving killing frosts finally ended the growing season. Early morning darkness gave way to early evening darkness as soon as we turned back our clocks. Right on cue, November ushered in freezing cold, and driving snow flurries.

Winter was here. It was past time to let go of summer’s regrets, and lost opportunities. . . buckets too heavy to carry. Time to let go of the what ifs and could have beens. . . the big leaf hydrangea that only mustered one blossom, low to the ground. . . the family tree withering before my eyes. The droughts of the soil, and the soul.

They’re only gardens, you say? No, they were much more: a refuge from the chaos, strife, and ugliness in the world. . . an escape to restore precarious equilibrium . . . a soothing space to create nonstop blooming beauty.

Now all we can do is harvest the remnants, and preserve the cherished images and memories: focus on the beauty, celebrate the small wonders, and embrace the unexpected survivals:

· The resilience of apples that grew and ripened after Mother Nature kneecapped its branches; the battle-scarred apple tree gave its all to yield one last crop.

· The redbud, deformed after years of setbacks and near-misses, still putting on a show.

· The impermanence and unpredictability of Nature – the spring kittens vanished without saying good-bye to autumn.

My November Guest

“My sorrow, when she’s here with me,

Thinks these dark days of autumn rain

Are beautiful as days can be;

She loves the bare, the withered tree;

She walks the sodden pasture lane. . .

Not yesterday I learned to know

The love of bare November days

Before the coming of the snow,”

Robert Frost

The past week’s cold nights and snow coated grass sent us scurrying for shelter. Then the weather forecast bestowed one last reprieve: sunny skies, with temps in the 70s. Enough time to surround new shrubs to protect against winter’s invasion of rabbits and deer. A few more days to enjoy the palette of sunset colors outside on the deck. “A time to plant, and a time to pluck up that which is planted.”

Some believe wooly bear caterpillars forecast the approaching winter. The wider their rusty brown ring, the milder the winter. But if the black ring dominates at either end, expect a harsher winter. Maybe that’s so.

But the wooly bear caterpillar might teach us all a more valuable lesson about letting go, without surrendering our core. It survives winter by producing a cryoprotectant, a natural antifreeze that prevents ice from forming in its cells. Wooly bear caterpillars even have survived an entire winter frozen in an ice cube.

In the spring, they’ll wake, eat, and form a cocoon. Their metamorphosis begins, and after one month, they’ll emerge as graceful Isabella Tiger Moths.

Like the wooly bear caterpillar, we’ll persevere by drawing winter’s snowy cover over us, and repeating the freeze and thaw cycle as many times as needed. We’ll endure by creating an interior escape hatch where we’ll spend a season of repair, healing, and reflection.

In the spring, as the sun warms the earth, if we’ve managed to hold onto our core values, beliefs, and sense of self, we can look forward to our own metamorphosis of sorts. If we can trust spring to wrap its silky magical cocoon over around us, we may sprout new strengths and spread our wings, transforming our old selves into our next phase of renewal and growth.

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