Peaceable Man Files #59: The Fall That Wasn’t

Random musings on my vagabond existence in the Endless Mountains of Pennsylvania and wherever else life takes me.

Where has Fall gone?

I always look forward to the Fall season—the changing of the leaves, the colors, the crisp, cool temperatures—and this year, it seems that autumn has come and gone in the blink of an eye.

It’s only the middle of October and we’ve already had a few snowflakes up here in the Endless Mountains of Pennsylvania. The grass has stopped growing. I’ve had to turn on the heat this week because the temperatures haven’t gotten out of the forties.

Many of the trees around my property are already stripped bare. What leaves remain on the trees lack the usual vivid colors that I’m used to seeing up here this time of year. The drought we’ve been experiencing has cut off the flow of sugars into the leaves, causing them to turn rust-brown and drop early.

We finally got some rain this past week but it’s too late to save the season that I love the best of all. The trees are all stressed out. I would be too if I hadn’t had a good, long drink in a couple of months.

After a hard frost last night, I find myself donning a winter jacket and gloves as I set forth on my early morning walk with Cassie. The strong winds of the past few days have calmed and all is still. A mist rises from my neighbor’s pond. Geese sound in the distance as they make their way south.

I feel the close press of winter coming on. I step into the woods and stand among the trees, breathing in the delicious aroma of decaying leaves on the moist ground. More leaves filter down from the canopy overhead. Soon, the trees will be completely stripped bare.

I find myself wondering: Do the trees feel the approaching winter too? Do they dread the long, dark months ahead—the cold, the snow, the brutal winds? Do they fear their branches being splintered by the wind?

If they do, they don’t show it. They are quietly resolute in the face of the dangers ahead. Perhaps they, like me, have had a mother who taught them the lessons of the Serenity Prayer:

"God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, courage to change the things I can, and wisdom to know the difference."

I personify, of course. Trees don’t have feelings. At least, we don’t think they do, although I’m not so sure. From my earliest days I have felt an unspoken communion with trees. They speak to me. A deep undercurrent of spirit runs through them and all of nature, connecting and binding us together.

It’s why I spend so much time by myself outside. Yes, I love the company of people, but I tire quickly of it and retreat into nature to replenish my soul, there to seek the connection to the spirit.

It is in the quiet of solitude that we become aware of the pull of the spirit. Prayer does it. Meditation does it. Stepping into nature does it.

There are so many lessons to be learned from nature. We learn courage and bravery from the creatures that battle for survival every day in the wild. We learn resilience from the growth that happens after a wildfire.

What I admire most about trees is their quiet stoicism. They don’t complain about their lot. When the cold winds blow, they stand their ground and take what comes at them. What else can they do?

And when it comes time for them to die and fall to the ground, they offer themselves up to the ants and beetles that find nourishment in their carcasses. In time, they rot and become loam that feeds future generations of trees and plants and animals.

These trees I stand amongst this morning are quiet warriors. This drought is nothing new to them. They’ve seen it all before.

It strikes me that even now, as old as I am, I have much to learn from the trees. Ahead of me lies my own winter and the gradual deterioration of my physical body before the storms of old age. Will I show the same stoicism as these trees?

I hope so. I have had good teachers over the years: my parents; faithful friends; good books; nature. Now it’s time to put those lessons into practice.