A Deep River Year - 2017

Orange is all around now. Up at the orchard on top of the hill, a swath of pumpkins awaits children looking for just the right one for their Halloween jack-o-lanterns. The grocery store has them lined up in tiers by the parking lot, the number diminishing by the day. This year I have noticed an increase in other options: I've seen quite a few white pumpkins, and even some in blues and pinks. And some are oddly shaped, like warty beasts or curved-neck swans. But nothing can outdo the classic bright orange pumpkins decking the porches and front steps up and down our small town streets.

Those pumpkins accentuate the color magic that is taking place on our hillsides. This year, it seems, the show is a little more mottled than usual. The wind has stripped our big maples of many of their leaves which are falling brown onto the ground. But there is hope, still, for the occasional trees standing like a burning bush, sentinels of joy in the failing light of autumn. Colors elicit emotions. Orange is like a fire, a sign of energy and life. I've heard that restaurants often color their interiors with shades of orange, because it is said to increase people's appetites. And surely, as the days grow cooler, we feel energy rising in us to play among the falling leaves, to do the necessary cleanup of our yards and gardens, to walk in the woods, and feel our appetites increase. Bring on the cider and apple pie!

One fall day decades ago, a number of students were invited to the country cabin of then Yale professor Roland Bainton, a small, bespectacled historian with a wild shock of white hair. That day he stood out on the hill overlooking the Housatonic River, knee deep in golden and orange leaves. Someone commented that autumn was such a sad time, with everything dying down for winter. Bainton, an old man himself, smiled and raised his hands to the sky. "Oh, but what a way to go," he cried. What energy! What appetite!

Orange

Autumn is orange,
as maples on a thousand hills
blaze toward their winter rest.
At roadside stands, fat pumpkins shine,
ready to be turned into grinning lanterns
lighting up welcoming porches
through crackling, frosty nights.
And aged oak and birch
burn bright in the hearth,
their orange fires dwindling to glowing embers
as love sits by and smiles.
This color is life's hue in a dying hour,
a flame painting joy on the world
before the dull, dark days to come.
Orange is a strong color, but not my best.
I am home, most truly, in summer's green,
or even where the cloudless sky
turns the flowing water blue as hope.
But let there be some orange in me
these tender days,
so that I may leap and blaze,
so that I, too, may be a little fire
in the night.

--Timothy Haut

A Deep River Year - 2017

A mottled goldfinch landed on the feeder today, already shed of its brilliant yellow summer feathers. There are still some beautiful monarch butterflies flitting around the bright zinnias and dahlias remaining in our garden, but soon the last one will be gone. The flowers, too, will drop their blossoms, and one day I will realize that the last sweet cherry tomato will have fallen to the earth. And summer will truly be over.

The world around us usually changes gradually, not in signature moments. I don't know exactly when it was that my hair turned all silver, or when I knew that I was totally, irredeemably in love with my wife. One day I realized I had become a grown-up,though I wasn't sure when or how. And one day I knew that my mother was slipping away into dementia, and I couldn't stop it. It happens in big and small things. I don't know exactly when it was that I realized I could sing "Silent Night" and "White Christmas" by heart, or when it happened that I could make a good pie crust every time. Or when it was that I was finally content to be myself, or when I realized that autumn was the season that had my heart.

All of these passages happened without fanfare or headlines in my journal. Always, always things change, slip away, sometimes silently, when we aren't paying attention. I look for it now, in the leaves drifting by the window, the woodbine turning scarlet on the trees, the smell of autumn carried in the morning air. I cannot hold on to summer, keep it from passing. I cannot hold on to my life, either. But I can trust that something new, something good, is always coming.

The Change

There is no trumpet fanfare,
no bold pronouncement,
for this turning,
for the blood red rising
in the green,
for the frill of asters 
stirring on the edge of the world,
for the anthem of geese
trailing away over the hills.
It is here, too, in my bones,
the old ache and joy
as time runs out 
from the bowl of life,
as I await the beauty 
promised in every change,
as I hold an anxious breath,
wondering what surprise
may be seeded in the silence,
the sadness, the peace.

--Timothy Haut

A Deep River Year - 2017

Last night was the Harvest Moon, the full moon closest to the autumn equinox. It was a night to go out and stand in the moonlight and feel the ancient magic that has filled a million nights for those who looked up into the starry sky to sing, or dream, or wish, or love. The moon has always had that effect on us, we whose feet are anchored to the earth. We feel the same ebb and flow of the tides as the seas, which are pulled and pushed by that great magnet in the sky. Social scientists have observed for generations the effect of a full moon on the moods and behavior of people. For example, hospitals see a rise in emergency admissions, and some of us know that old romantic tug, too. How many songs have been written about that old bewitching face in the sky?

One night a few years ago we heard that a total eclipse of the moon was imminent, and that because of atmospheric conditions it would be one of those rare "blood moons." That meant that at the moment of full eclipse. the moon would take on a shadowy red color. We didn't want to miss the effect, so my wife and I headed down to the Deep River Landing to watch the eclipse over the river in a sky untainted by streetlights and other ambient lighting. It was a beautiful, clear night, and as we sat on the hood of the car and waited for the celestial event to begin, another car arrived, then another, until finally the riverbank was filled with people all wanting to witness the blood moon. One of them pulled out her smart phone and began playing all the "moon songs" she could think of. And the whole crowd instantly joined in singing "Shine on, Harvest Moon," "Moon River," "Bad Moon Rising," "Fly Me to the Moon," "It's Only a Paper Moon," "Harvest Moon," "Moonshadow," "Blue Moon," "That Old Devil Moon," and on, and on. There, under the most beautiful, awesome Blood Moon, a strange community arose, and joy happened.

Harvest Moon

It is autumn,
when wild geese feel the irresistible urge
to wing far away 
to an unknown destination.
We feel it, too,
that stirring in the blood.
We come to a measuring of days:
the ticking of the clock to first frost,
the shadow of the growing darkness,
the smell of snow in the wind.
But it is also this:
that our days are short on this earth,
and beauty is a shining, glorious thing
that slips away, uncatchable.
And, love, too, asks of us everything,
and breaks our brave and tender hearts,
and stirs us even when we are old.
It is then we remember 
some sweet October night
when a face in a golden moon
looked down upon us 
with that inscrutable gaze
of delight and sadness
as we held each other fast,
thought the world would stand still
forever, for us,
even as we were already
winging our way 
to an unknown destination,
like October's geese.
But still, in autumn's years,
we feel the seasons turning, 
sense the tug of time.
and we look again 
for a big old moon
to fill our night.

--Timothy Haut

A Deep River Year - 2017

This has been the year of the Chipmunks. Perhaps because of last year's mild winter, the chipmunk population is booming in this corner of New England. Friends also have reported the little creatures scurrying around their homes and gardens. And many of us have found that the tomatoes and peppers we planted so expectantly last May have been discovered by chipmunks who, able to reach the low-hanging produce, have eaten the bottoms off our vegetables. We love to begin our day with coffee on the brick patio under our pergola, and often we have a quiet lunch there, too. Inevitably our presence does not go unnoticed. The little "chippies" show up looking for handouts, and my wife does not disappoint them. Usually we have on the table a container of raw peanuts to disperse to the chipmunks and squirrels that call our place home. And often the chipmunks jump right up on the table or crawl up Phyllis' leg and onto her shoulder to claim their bounty. It's amazing to watch one of those little guys stash three or four big peanuts in his cheeks before running off to dump them in its storage unit before hurrying back for more.

My father used to carry on a perpetual battle with chipmunks because they dug endless tunnels among his flower beds and beloved rose bushes. He tried to drown them out with the garden hose, to no avail. He could never fill the tunnels up. We don't even try. Quite to the contrary, we actually enjoy these small rodents, who allow us, for just a moment, to bridge the gap between two alien species. We gladly spread our largesse among the songbirds and crows, the squirrels and the chipmunks. The gift they give us in return is not a thank-you, but the joy of having open hands, open hearts.

Chipmunk

Little one,
you come into our world
for something simple.
You do not care about
our lovely personalities,
our engaging wit,
our entertaining stories.
You want food.
We give it.
But we hold out to you
more than peanuts
and sunflower seeds.
We offer you a truce
in a world that is red
in tooth and claw,
a kindness as the hawks
circle overhead, 
as winter's shadows stir
in your tiny bones.
We notice your courage,
see that we are not so different
from each other.
We live, each of us, a little life,
try to save something for tomorrow,
hide in fearsome times,
breathe summer's air with joy
before the end comes,
shake our tails with joy
at any gentle hand.
We are cousins
in this strange and wondrous
family.

--Timothy Haut

A Deep River Year - 2017

Today marks a new year in the Jewish calendar, Rosh Hashanah. It is a time for casting away the regrets and mistakes of the past and looking forward to a sweet new year to come. This week also brings us to the autumn equinox, the moment in the year's turning when daylight and night are equal in length. An old tradition says that on this "balancing" day of the year (as well as on its counterpart in March), it is possible to stand a raw egg on its end. Presumably the gravitational or magnetic forces of the universe make this possible, though most scientists agree that this is just an urban legend. Still, I will go to the refrigerator and retrieve a fresh egg and make the attempt. It will be my humble, harmless exercise to celebrate the inexorable passage of time once more.

We live in a world of constant motion and change. Soon the days will grow shorter and we will awaken in the dark and eat our suppers in the dark as well. Winter's bitter grasp is already around us, though we still have a few tender, golden weeks to savor before the snow falls. But we don't need the calendar to remind us of these changes. We look in the mirror and see the lines deepening on our faces, the hair turning silver. We watch our grandchildren grow up, and soon enough we will wave good-bye as they head off to college. We attend the ceremonies of passage: christenings, graduations, weddings, retirement parties, funerals too. We say farewell too many times.

I watched the dawn today. Before the sun appeared, the first sign of morning was a subtle brightening of the night sky, a softness at the edge of the world. In that early, tender light, the morning star sparkled brightly over the far hills. It was quiet. The world had not yet awakened to begin its noise and confusion, its hurry to work. I felt a catching of breath, the power of that "in-between" time, neither fully night nor day. It was the transitional pause, the place where we can be most aware of the change and flow of the universe. It was, I realized, the place where we live.

Morning Star

I would stop it, if I could,
this relentless wheel of change.
I want the universe
to stay still,
green, sweet, whole.
I watch my girl
race across the grass,
and I wish her to run, run
beyond time's hungry grasp,
where its fearsome curse
can etch no lines
nor bend those fresh limbs
with old years' weariness.
I would call back my dead,
keep their voices bright and young,
or just save this little day
for but a lingering moment,
balancing like an egg
that hasn't learned to topple.
But this day, this year, will go,
as others always have gone,
pulled into the great vortex
where good and bad both wait,
where snow and spring both come in time,
where death sings its puzzling song
and nothing stands for long.
We live in the mysterious light of passing,
whether dusk or dawn we cannot say.
But here, in-between what was
and what will be,
here in this dark and lightening place,
here in the fearsomeness
of time and change,
I see a morning star.

--Timothy Haut