Gratefulbeing

Mon –

The Yoda-like syntax of this holiday remains meaningful, but Thanksgiving has such immense and varied connotations that a general feeling of gratitude to the universe for our existence sometimes gets lost in the shuffle. There are certainly times when most of us are overwhelmed by the richness and wonder of being alive. On the other hand, there are all the sales, the hassles with cooking unfamiliar birds, travel, the dread of encountering family, and, of course, the fact that the original holiday was declared by Lincoln as a day to ask God to help us slaughter the other side so that right might prevail.

I’m not at all cynical about being in awe of the cosmos all the time. I know I had nothing to do with the bounty provided to me. Like many people, at least in the more fortunate parts of the world, I would not trade my ordinary life here and now for an ordinary life in any other time nor place. I am very lucky.
Tue –

Amazingly, we can find beauty in scenes that promise little direct pleasure. Evolutionary theory would claim that there is a clear survival skill in recognizing something immediately useful _ a fruit, a possible animal dinner, avoiding danger, whatever. But the sere landscapes of late fall and winter offer no useful relief to our basic needs.

Yet we look at snowdrifts, and brown reeds, and skies promising rain or snow or harsh cold and we are often happy. This all fits, we think. Beauty is complex. Our universes are more complicated than our theories can ever know. I sometimes wonder if the only real sin is in extreme simplification.
Wed-

Everyone seems to have taken the hint of the last few storms and spells. The waters ride open and clear _ at least at this end of the harbor _ once more. Even most of the buoys have been taken up. Let the ice and snow arrive _ we are deep in our burrows until better times.

Thanksgiving kicks off the “holiday season” with which the Northern Hemisphere combats the depression of dark solstice. It’s filled with feasts, and lights, and special social gatherings, and that is all to the good. Some urge us to ponder the “deeper true meaning” of such events, but the “deeper true meaning” of any time you can take some moments to contemplate the universe is just to be astonished and in awe of your own experience of existence, and overwhelmed that you can share it with others.
Thu-

Of all the infinite things for which I am grateful, perhaps the most extraordinary is the privilege of having lived in a goldilocks historical period. Nature was still viable, man had not yet overwhelmed the planet, the past of cultures and buildings and languages lived on. There was an amazing mix of new scientific knowledge and deeper religious experience. We were all amazingly free to experience almost every human possibility.

This picture symbolizes that nicely. It seems remote and wild, but it is in one of the most heavily populated and reworked places on earth. Nature frames all, but there are docks and kayaks with which to explore. An old man can walk here with a camera and go home to a full dinner. Perhaps in t
he future, as in the past, the sky and the water will be filled with menace and destruction, but this particular slice of time was mostly benign and immensely glorious.
Fri-

Not so much the cold as the raw drizzle and biting wind _ and the early onset which means I have not adjusted yet _ added gloom to the already dim and bleak scene. I hunched down in my parka, furtively snapped some pictures, fondly remembered other, better times, and began to put myself in a pretty nasty funk.

Fortunately, I was able to take a few deep breaths and pause and finally immerse myself in the moment, and all was well. I am constantly astounded that my mind can switch moods and make lemonade out of just about anything. I’m not so foolish as to claim my life is entirely built on attitude, but I am amazed (and often grateful) that emotions can override any logic.
Sat-

Bittersweet is featured perhaps too often in these seasonal shots, but this year’s crop happens to be magnificent, after several rather skimpy autumns. It is the flashiest of the wild berries, out of place in the drab brown wilds where it is typically found. Harder to ignore than the more inconspicuous fruits of poison ivy, wild grapes, rose hips, and innumerable others, but we manage to not see it all the same.

I never pretend to divorce myself from this blog, and that includes my personal history. The other reason for bittersweet now is that it brings back strong memories of gathering it over twenty years ago for Joan’s Mom to decorate the house during these holidays. Linking the past with today using tangible artifacts can be a rather noble activity, especially when it also recalls nature and a world that once was, keeps constantly changing, and yet, fortunately, still remains with us.
Sun-

The greenest life around is the algae happily glowing on the tideline, although the most vibrant life of all remains under the water, like the seaweed draped on the back of this concrete. The concrete itself is a remnant of a once-mighty wall futilely designed to hold back the sea, although its true demise rested on the constant erosion caused by fresh water springs seeping through from behind. So many processes and connections in this world, of which we are mostly unaware.

Happily ignorant, I try to experience what I can each day. I know I am affecting nothing, doing nothing, being nothing in particular. And yet, to me, it is all important. And, selfishly, “to me” still matters a great deal.

Happily Civilized

Mon-

Seems like I spend a great deal of time avoiding the immediate traces of industrialization around here. I take shots over fences, around boats and houses, avoiding bits of trash, cutting out the auto traffic. But, of course, it is always there, as here with the fence and the signs and the houses across the way. Sometimes I may seem to imply that life would be far better with a return to wilderness.

But I do not really believe that, even on a perfect summer day. I am well aware of my attire, my last meal, my health, my camera, my latest reading and the very language in which I think, none of which would exist except for the civilization in which I live. Signs, fences, cars, noise are all part of that, as much as the seagulls overhead. I am especially aware of it in cold air, with winter on the way, happily wrapped in heavy clothing and with a warm house to which to return after my stroll.
Tue-

Unlike some of the more bucolic coves of the North Shore, Huntington Harbor has been commercial for nearly the last four hundred years. Originally, that just meant clearing the marshlands and building piers and bulkheads and landing spots, but as the motorized traffic increased another problem became obvious. All of Long Island is one glacial sand dune, and constant churning of motors disturbs the hills alongside the water and naturally clogs the channels over time. Not to mention the constant garbage, flotsam, jetsam, and sunken docks and boats and (probably) bodies. Eventually, it has to be cleared.

I am sure that somewhere someone is trying to stop the dredging. It is certainly not good for the natural wildlife _ it kills of oysters and clams and who knows what else, although I imagine most of the fish simply take off elsewhere. Yet, honestly, it is part of what makes the harbor the harbor. You need the access to have the boats, and the boats to have the stores, and the stores to have the people, and the people to have the money to create and maintain access with roads. The roads that I use everyday. Complaining about one element in a necessary chain is like bitterly hating your nose because it sometimes drips.
Wed-

That is a huge plastic water tank on a trailer behind a pickup truck. Some local entrepreneurs have apparently found a way to make money siphoning harbor water and taking it somewhere _ they are reloading almost everyday. I assume, without having verified, that they sell it to restaurants and stores selling live lobsters. I prefer my romantic imaginings to whatever the truth may actually be.

Cold has arrived, although without the huge snow of Buffalo. Even the wildlife is a bit stunned. I saw a seagull lift off, take a few dispirited flaps into the strong biting wind, and flop back down resignedly onto the sand. Another useless gift I have is being able to anthropomorphize anything at all, not so much to enhance my worldview as to fit it into whatever momentary story line I happen to be weaving.
Thu-

Mid twenty degree temperatures cannot prevent activity at the marin
a. The harbor water is still too warm to be affected, but boat owners have been reminded that there will not be many if any nice days left to sail. Also with this early hard weather, this winter may cause an ice freeze thick enough to crush hulls. So there is a little more urgency to get the boats out and winterized.

Walking along, I notice birds and trees and other natural events. But I enjoy watching the patterns of humans just as much. People are nature too (as the supreme court might put it.) Their activities are easily as fascinating as those of hawks above or seagulls along the shoreline.

Fri-

The point of this picture is that even the views that do not include some kind of industrial theme all involve some kind of human cultural attributes. Around here, two hundred years ago or so, there were very few trees _ everything had been cleared for grazing land for sheep. This area is called Southdown for precisely that reason. This vista is here courtesy of Mr. Brown’s gold coast estate. Arriving before the Europeans, you would not have been able to see the harbor from this hill.

We inhabit a world formed by us and by our ancestors. The current debate is how much of the general patrimony is anyone’s by birth _ and why. But the first realization must be that at this point almost all the world _ even that which seems wild, even that which represents nature _ has for better or worse been heavily shaped by our species.
Sat –

Ice forming on the little pond below the hill. Fresh water even now attracts birds and insects, provides habitat for various plant species, and is a welcome change from lawns and salt bay. We think it quite natural that such scenes should occur frequently everywhere.

Yet looking more closely, there is a concrete rim around the edge _ not a muddy bank with willow thicket. This was just a muddy trickle until it was shaped by some landscape architect almost a hundred years ago. Recently, it was all but lost until the eutrophication caused by reeds and algae was partially dredged out by the county, and the dam where the stream exits repaired. Here in the heavily populated northeast, very little if any of our favorite natural spots is truly natural. So what? It is in some ways unnatural that I can think in twenty-first century language or write and show my reflections on this machine or send them to you.
Sun-

Skin ice pretty early this year _ of course we haven’t had it this cold for a long time. My sister reminds me that according to records, we have no conception of the harsh climate the first colonists were facing. For them, perhaps, harbors freezing over around now may have been the normal expectation.

Just as one swallow does not make a spring, one cold snap or snowstorm does not do much to predict the eventual pattern of the winter. In fact, most of the time we can only say “that was really warm, or cold, or snowy, or dry” after the fact, sometime in late March. Now that I no longer have to be anywhere or do anything on any particular day, my worries about weather have pretty much vanished. It’s a nice day, no matter what.

Flocking Geese, Falling Leaves

Mon-

All the foliage is now turned and in various stages of drying brown, the only uncertainty being which raindrop or snowfall or gust of wind will eventually drop each leaf onto lawn or into gutter. Biological function is fulfilled, except for ultimate decay to nourish future life. In a more morose mood, I would make an analogy to being a senior in human society.

Flocks of certain kinds of geese, not those that hang around all year, have been overwintering in this harbor for several years now. Some would claim that as a sign of global warming, but I don’t need such subtle indicators. In Thoreau’s time ponds all around here were used to harvest ice blocks when they froze solid, even when Joan and I grew up there were frozen lakes and streams on which to skate. Now _ not at all. You can argue as to whether humans cause it, or if the effects will be for better or worse, but not that the climate is different than it has been recently.
Tue-

Most of the horizon now a harmony of thinning yellows and browns. Artists will try to capture such things, but of course images are not reality. You would think such limited pallet would be boring, but nature is never boring. If a natural scene bores me, I know exactly who to blame.

In a frantic world, it is often necessary to consciously slow down _ even to stop dead _ to regain such a perspective. I rush too frequently with eyes blinded to a vision of the future, staring into desired futures rather than experiencing my surroundings. I accept the need for speed to simply live in this culture, but I must be willing to fight against it consciously as much as possible for my own deeper cosmic sanity.

Wed-

The boats are gone from puppy cove, the buoys are being picked up and stored off at the end of the harbor, half the leaves are fallen from the trees along the shore. The day is beautiful and warm, apparently the last of this until spring arrives. Nobody wants to be inside, loveliness is overwhelming.

We all get to pretend we are good little ants now, having worked all summer to store up for our winter needs while the frivolous grasshoppers fiddled away. Of course most of us did no such thing. We worked at keeping our income available, in the civilized faith that somewhere someone else was growing our food and digging our energy. It’s amazing what lies we can tell ourselves about how virtuous and independent we are, when in fact we generally have never been so individually helpless. Carpe Diem, my friends, while we have it.

Thu-

Signs of the season, but another example of beauty everywhere. The trick of being an artist _ or at least of experiencing life as an artist _ is to be able to experience uniquely and intensely. Most of the time, I go through life blin
ded by what I think is important and what I must do next and what will be necessary. I fail to feel my heart beat, I ignore the distracting sounds, I filter out anything that is not danger nor opportunity. If I can just stop, and look, and meditate for a moment I will be rewarded with incredible riches _ but I simply do not think I have the time, if in fact I think at all.

There was an old saying common in the counterculture _ “the further you go, the less you know.” It is an old person’s lament, a joke among the young, and yet it is true. At least for a certain value of true. As I go less far, I seem to understand far more. Maybe it is a trick of a deteriorating brain, but I find it helps me feel fulfilled every day.
Fri-

Calm waters, emptying rapidly. I guess most of the boat owners expect another hard winter like the last one, with the harbor possibly freezing over deeply, crushing hulls. Looks like the expensive craft have mostly been removed, anyone who took their chances last year either paid dearly or were frightened to death. So we regain a slightly bucolic vision.

Calm is pretty unusual for mid-November. There is almost always something blowing from the north _ from a constant relatively gentle breeze to a relentless gale. The only time that stops is when wind from the east overcomes the prevailing normal. A still day is welcome _ both for visual effect and for relief when walking through the chilled air.
Sat-

Day to day changes now can be dramatic. The tree in full colorful foliage one afternoon may be nothing but branches by the next. Whole sections of land transfigure. Microclimates and the vagaries of wind patterns mean that for a while nothing is really in step with each other _ there are pockets that look like midwinter, others that hold promises of late summer. But the trend is clear.

At first I welcome the bite, a refreshing difference from the flabbiness of by now ordinary mild temperatures. Then I wish it would go away. Finally, I adjust completely and what was once ridiculously cold becomes the new normal _ or even the relatively warm. I find the fact that I still have the flexibility to go through such transformations myself, season after season, to be a hopeful reminder that I am not yet entirely fossilized.
Sun-

Today I present the cathedral of the Japanese Maple. It is true that this was taken yesterday; today is overcast. Nature presents its cathedrals all the time, with sacraments and services every moment, if we have the will to observe them.

Faith is just another word for unknowable. Some scientists with faith that everything is just random coincidence affected by underlying mathematical laws could doubtless write Proustian multi-volume texts showing how everything just happened to lead to my enjoying this moment and writing about it for you. My faith that it was especially directed at me to guide appreciation and contemplation of the universe is no less valid, and no more provable.

Metamorphosis

Mon-

Like a mirror image twin of March, October comes in like a lamb and goes out like a lion. Whitecaps on the harbor are caused by a fierce north wind following a blast of cold rain. Throughout the rest of this month, the lion cub _ cute at first _ will grow stronger and bigger and eventually be a constant presence in our subconscious and a frequent nighttime terror. Already the villagers huddle in their warm huts and set out lights against the increasing darkness.

While the rest of the world warms, the northeast seems to be chilling down. If the patterns of the last year hold we will have brutal cold and frequent heavy snow bordering on blizzard conditions. The future is always filled with such ifs, and while it is interesting to contemplate them abstractly in daydreams I fight the enervating tendency to let them control my mood right now.
Tue-

The weekend storm ripped many of the most colorful leaves to the ground, the rest are rapidly fading into various shades of browned russet and gold. But there are still patches of brilliance, abstract masterpieces no matter where we look if we just take the time. Of course, no photograph can do justice to what we can actually see.

Nature always puts the lie to any systemic theory of aesthetics. In nature, all colors and shapes fit perfectly well, regardless of our logical preconceptions, which usually involve willfully ignoring parts of what is before us. Once upon a time, all this surely warned us of danger or opportunity, but somehow we have been gifted with the amazing ability to appreciate it all. If we but try.
Wed-

Exactly the scene everywhere, from the top of the Coindre hill. Leaves beginning to cover the still verdant lawn, one tree stripped, colors becoming muted, the far hills transitioning away from basic green. This was another particularly warm day, with pedestrians happily stripping off layers of clothing in surprise.

Nature doesn’t care how we vote, whether we dissolve into anarchy or become feudal clans. What might be lost will only affect human individuals, as parks like this are removed from common heritage and enjoyment and taken by the most aggressively heartless selfish wealthy for their personal use and enjoyment, leaving the rest of us to wonder at what once was.
Thu-

Another boring shot of the same old boring places. But to me they are constantly changing and mysterious. Nothing is simple in the universe. Should I ever get tired of the banquet obviously spread before and around me, I can consider what is unseen _ under the water, in the air, beneath the trees, over our heads. Or what once was here and what may happen in the future. Imagination knows no boredom.

I think we have lost that in our edged search for novelty everywhere all the time. We have lost the ability to glory in the subtlety of change and difference. We have become the grossest of consumers, with absolutely no discriminatory tastes, no connoisseur ability. We experience as we eat _ until we are overfilled and on our way to obesity of the soul.
Fri-

Although the general surrounding splendor is rapidly dimming into browns, this is probably the week of greatest contrast with what remains _ a brilliant red here, a glowing yellow there, greens still untouched. And, after all, it is contrast _ like movement _ that our instincts most detect and call to our attention. A sea of scarlet-orange maples on a hill is all very well, but we lose interest quickly. Just as spicy food is brought out by a bland companion course, the colors of autumn are more spectacular by comparison with lesser surroundings.

True, I have to search a little to find what I want, but the rewards are greater. I suppose a philosopher would extend that to some kind of tedious metaphor. I’m too old for metaphors _ I think everything just is as it is and we better learn how to accept reality.

Sat-

Pure November, across the wind-churned water to the deepening brown trees under a dark foreboding cloud-filled sky. Breaks of sunlight highlight a white mansion standing almost defiant against the coming elements. Of course, that is the normal romantic take on all this stuff. Otherwise, ho hum, another day, whatever.

There’s always a question of how much I allow my imagination to run wild. I can despair at all the awful news in the media, until I am ready to gratefully welcome whatever apocalypse is being served up today. I can equally become enamored of the wonderful discoveries and scientific marvels of a new age until I believe everything will turn out better than ever. And my own future _ my own future actually varies just as much mood by mood. But from this scene, right now _ why not be a Romantic for a moment?
Sun-

November fully colored by nature, active waves, constant clouds and wind. You may not feel the temperature nor experience the shortened days nor hear the lack of birdcall, but somehow for anyone who has been there a picture like this recalls it all. That is, really, the primary purpose of photographs and most other forms of capture _ not so much to show us new marvels as to refresh our memories.

What I find disturbing is that lately what I read is that everyone is ditching reality for imaginative capture _ avoiding the sunlight to watch a well-crafted show on some media. That may be true, and if so is quite sad. Yet simultaneously, I note that the people I actually know are doing no such thing _ the parks and outside fairs are crowded, the parks are well used, many take walks as I do, my children grab the same time doing things as I used to. I think, not for the first time, that what the media gives me is a completely distorted view of current cultural life.

Indian Summer

Mon-

Almost overnight, the reeds have packed up and fled until next year, leaving behind only bare stalks and surprisingly resilient fluffy white seed heads that will hang around until the new growth. Summer is officially over, even for those who have failed to pick up on the warning signs. The nights are chill, the north winds are becoming harsh, and each ever colder rainstorm is a foretaste of the snows arriving soon.

People who live in this climate _ me among them _ generally welcome the onset of new seasons. We claim it is the privilege of living here. (Of course, those who live in different areas have different reasons for celebration _ the onset of the monsoons, for example.) What we sometimes have trouble with is the length of some of them _ winter always outwaits its welcome, and sometimes spring even lingers a bit too long. Nobody, however, is hoping that autumn will disappear any time in the near future.
Tue-

Bittersweet is somewhat invasive, but picturesque most of the year and especially beautiful with bright orange berries in intricate forms as we anticipate the first frosts. Joan used to have me gather a bunch of it to decorate the house around Thanksgiving, as her mom used to do, but these days the tradition has ended. Killed, like so many others, by affluence.

It is much easier to buy plastic leaves and wreaths and various light-up marvels to decorate than to walk the woods and possibly scratch your hands. For months, stores have been offering faux-nostalgic wares remembering holidays of old. And, perhaps, that is all to the good. Leave these fine berries and anything else out in the open for the appreciation of others and the use of the ecology of which they are a part.
Wed –

Puppy cove, with about as much color as there will be along the waterfront. After the cold front comes through in a few days, leaves will be various subtle shades of browns, not red nor yellow nor orange. Then they will be stripped by gales from Connecticut. Still, peak color for the local microclimate.

The rest of the area is magnificent. Joan and I took a ride yesterday viewing foliage as fine as any in New Hampshire or upstate. Long Island, for all its overpopulation, can be astonishing in how much beauty lies everywhere. Everywhere just glows like some enchanted storybook watercolor illustration.
Thu-

First of the obligatory Halloween cemetery shots. These rusting steel gravestones in Huntington Historic Cemetery date from the Civil War Era. The well-nourished trees on this hill provide some of the best colors in town, and from the top you can get views of what around here passes for expansive vistas of foliage in the distance.

I like being reminded periodically of mortality. Especially when you are older, each day of life and health is a gift, and we forget that fact only at our peril. I admit that even when younger, I would often stroll through such places, to keep a perspective on ambition and failure. No matter what, everyone ends up in the same situation.
Fri-

From the top of the hill with the old maple tree _ I’m not enough of an expert to tell if it is a sugar maple, but it seems brilliant enough. The stones here go back to the early seventeen hundreds, although most that old are almost too weathered to read.

For a while this ground was totally neglected, but lately the town has realized what a historic resource it is and there is a significant effort to clean it up. There are even seasonal tours and I would not be surprised if some of them were at night around now. The beer cans and periodic vandalism have finally stopped. I think it is good for anyone’s psyche to always have a graveyard within walking distance _ kind of like the ancient Roman slave who kept whispering “remember you are only mortal” in the ears of a conqueror on parade.

Sat-

Our own front yard shows as fine a pattern of autumn splendor as there is anywhere, the Japanese maples getting progressively more brilliant and clear red, while the hickories turn fully gold. This weekend the rain and winds will rip through, and all the finery will lie darkening on the ground, waiting for me to get out and sweep them all up. Some colors, some leaves will remain for quite a while, but from here on it’s all a ragged show, like a beggar wearing a once fine set of clothing.

Meanwhile, other beggars in all their current finery were ready to go out candy hunting. Halloween has become another huge holiday like Super Bowl Sunday, almost from nowhere. I think it is because nobody is being urged to contemplate “the real spirit of Halloween” as is constantly blathered at the more traditional ones. That and the fact that those are both purely peer holidays _ no extended family to please, no ghosts from the past to be compared _ makes it an attractively meaningless festival.
Sun-

Goldenrod completely gone to seed and fluffy seed carriers. The far shore fully decorated with autumnal colors. A fair amount of boats still remain in the water, their owners hopeful that there will be a number of good days ahead, but even they are thinning quickly, as the boatyards constantly haul them up for winterizing and storage.

I tend to get too easily ahead of myself. One snowflake does not a winter make. A single cold blustery morning is not the onset of full harsh weather. It’s always been a problem, this looking too far ahead, this worry about the future when the present is fully around. Time to just take a deep breath, stand still for a while, and truly immerse myself in the moment.

Wind, Rain, Leaves

Thu-

Our northeaster is beginning to pass on, with more cold in its wake. Any time now we can anticipate Indian Summer, then the final chill down. These dogwood leaves hardly notice the rain, they just lose their chlorophyll and reveal their true colors.

A cynic would say that is just like an American election these days _ as soon as the storm passes on and the results are in, the coldness returns. Politicians lose whatever camouflage they were displaying to get votes and return to their true color before drying up and uselessly dropping to the low ground. But, naturally, I follow nature and am not permitted to be a cynic.

Fri-

What look like elf weapons hanging from the sweet gum tree in front of Coindre Hall. These handsome leaves are moving right along with everything else. Today the wind has a bite _ I’m wearing a wool cap for the first time _ and there remains an off and on drizzle from the storm out over the Atlantic.

I’m about halfway to getting out the regular fall gear and putting away the things of summer. The yard, too, is hung between seasons: the hoses are still out, the leaves don’t need raking but the grass needs a final clip, all the stakes should be pulled out, but the bulbs are in. Then comes the real changeover, which somehow always coincides with Halloween and the end of daylight savings time.

Sat-

Reeds near high tide, with subtly colored trees in puppy cove behind. Like any other of the many pictures I take, really, yet each photograph is never quite the same.

Each moment is infinitely different from all others, yet each is basically identical. Each day I am identical to who I was yesterday, yet entirely different. That is true at a quantum level for everything in the universe, even a rock. Such contradiction is part of the fabric of which our consciousness is woven. Miraculously, as humans, we can be aware of each truth simultaneously.
Sun-

Some of the fascination with fall foliage is how its effects can vary from subtle to dramatic. Flaming orange maples or brilliant scarlet hillsides are the standard calendar book views, but autumn also announces in thinning brightly tinged leaves that almost seem an illusion. We adjust so easily that after a moment any strangeness is accepted as common, and we go back to looking for something new and different.

Perhaps that is part of our evolutionary heritage, in which we always had to be on the lookout for dangers or food opportunities. One of the glories of being human is that we include such mechanisms, which is why an artificial intelligence should it ever be possible would not be nearly human _ none of these instinctual and subtle facets of consciousness would be present.

Tipping Point

Mon –

Sometimes it’s obvious, sometimes not, from the colors over and around me autumn has reached the tipping point. No matter how many warm days or intervals we get in the near future, no matter how hot they may be, processes are irremediably set and the leaves will now turn, fall off, and await longer periods of sunlight. That’s why people who are fond of metaphors worry about things like when such a point of no return would be reached for global warming or social instability.

I admit to being a little too attached to words and logic and metaphors myself, too quick to decide something is like something totally dissimilar. Language can be great fun, imagination can fly beyond the bounds of reality. But, of course, nothing is really like anything else. The processes of autumn are exactly that, the human-caused atmospheric changes something entirely different, and the only reason we are reasonably sure of what will happen next in autumn is because we have been through it before.
Tue-

This is the most dramatic of season changes. There are moments, like this, where everything is summery calm and idyllic, which stretch for hours or days. Suddenly there will be a biting wind, a driving rain, a bank of deep purple clouds from the north. A few days later, warm again. Such times in spring are not quite so jarring, simply because the calm interludes reveal a landscape that continues to be primarily barren and bleak. This month, for romantics anyway, is all about loss.

The leaves are truly cascading and swirling. Around here, they never “come tumbling down in September.” Later October is the beginning and early November the overwhelming crescendo, when rakes and blowers can scarcely keep up, especially for neighbors who expect their lawn to look like a green living room carpet. I still like kicking my way through piles of them, reverting to childhood joys.
Wed-

Some of these berries will last through most of the winter. The expiration date on the leaves arrives much sooner. Especially along this shoreline, exposed to pure blasts of north wind through the inlet from the Sound, Connecticut, and further westward. Once again, my imagination runs far ahead of reality, anticipating what will be instead of appreciating what is.

I think ourselves extremely fortunate that our consciousness always weaves in connections throughout time and space and imagination. The world in any moment is infinitely rich, simply in instantaneous sensations, but the real glory of humanity is the enchanting web of depth that we can cast everywhere, on everything, all the time. In other words, it is wonderful to add on the knowledge that summer is just past, winter is just to come, and that there are such things as westward winds and the immense lands where they originate.
Thu-

Along the salt water, not many trees deliver the flaming oranges and scarlets you expect in, say, New Hampshire glens. Instead, it is a masterful blend of subtle yellow and brown hues. You need to appreciate them in a different way.

As I frequently do, I make an analogy to people. Some are brilliant and showy, but many of us are simply mellow brown and gold. Learning to accept what we are, and not wishing to be a sugar maple in the mountains when you are just an oak on the harbor, is part of maturity.

Escalating Reminders

Mon-

Most of our local geese get confused in October. Their basic genetic pattern and instincts whisper that they should be flying somewhere else. Their presumably expressed genetic pattern and upbringing tell them to stay put. Our formerly migrating flocks are homebodies. But internal pressures force them to do something _ first milling around in groups, then taking off and forming into V-shapes where they fly from one end of the harbor to the other, sometimes to another harbor, never very far, and always returning when the next urge strikes.

We like to believe (still somewhat trapped in our anthropologically-centered universe) that humans are the only beings who have escaped (or perilously ignored) their Paleolithic heritage. Eat and act like primitive ancestors, claim new gurus. But all creatures, all life, makes complicated adjustments like that all the time. We are only now learning exactly how complicated these adjustments are, having little to do with raw genes, basic nurture, nor immediate reflex. People fit exactly into this complicated dance, just like these geese, usually just as confused about the whole process.
Tue-

Contrast perfectly expresses the mood this week. A warm day follows a chilly night, clouds may bring misty rain or open to allow shafts of sunlight. I catch a glimpse of distant solid green through brightly colored leaves, while ignoring the brown falling ones behind me, or the stripped branches on the next tree over. The only real constant is the northerly wind, and that may be gentle or fierce. But the trends _ ah, the trends are all too certain.

Every moment is appropriate for reflection, if the demands of life are not too urgent, but knowledge of the seasons often shapes our thoughts. Spring full of hope, summer relaxation, winter gritty endurance, but autumn is generally satisfaction mixed with sadness. I want to refuse the temptation and remain excited at constantly changing beauty, but I admit it can be a struggle that becomes more personal with each ache in my joints.
Wed-

Queen Anne’s Lace is well ahead of the pack, already seeded and gone, none of this last minute hurry-up-and-try-to-beat-the-snow. Like people, some species procrastinate, some rush, and it all works out into a grand and tightly filled ecology. Our social mistake is that we sometimes believe that if everybody were alike _ if all the procrastinators would only hurry _ that somehow our society would be better.

I have the same problem, of course. I hurry along getting ready for the next season well before I need to, although sometimes I put off doing what should be done until a pleasant chore becomes unpleasant _ like cleaning out gutters in a cold drizzle when I could have done it on a lovely warm Indian Summer afternoon. What I now call wisdom just tells me it’s ok, all that just makes life interesting.

Thu-

Wild Asters a
re about the last of the blooms, rushing rushing rushing into seed now, as the days grow noticeably shorter. They carpet the woodland floor here at Coindre Hall, just as lovely and welcome as anything in spring. Yet they are mostly ignored, because we have all become so used to flowers over the last six months.

I try to pay proper respects, but in truth I am also caught up in the season. Suddenly there are many yard chores to accomplish, some to simply clean up and some to get ready for spring. A barrel of big green fragrant hickory nuts must be picked up in the next week, whatever the squirrels do not plant in the holes they are digging all over the lawn. Bulbs should be planted. Weeds taken out of the flower beds. Gutters! Wash windows! And that’s even before the leaves start to fall. Oh, woe am I _ it is so easy to get frantic and become oblivious to everything else. That’s why I must pay attention when I am strolling through the woods.

Fri-

I’m no great photographer, and I do not have the best equipment, but even so the glow of sun backshining through changing leaves merits a picture. You’ll have to seek out the details yourself _ after all, that is my core philosophy to begin with. A picture of the thing is not the thing itself. A very poor substitute for the experience, in fact.

That’s often an easy truth to forget. Pictures are such fine definition, multimedia such complete immersion, that we come to believe we either have experienced something, or that we can only do so by exactly replicating what is before us. Both are false. Any moment of our consciousness is infinitely complex, fed by infinitely complex senses and thoughts. And we can use those moments to expand our appreciation, understanding pictures like these because we try to find similar things nearby. The totality of those attempts _ by both the person presenting media and the one trying to understand it _ is what I call art.
Sat-

About as nice an autumnal set of colors as Puppy Cove gets, the bright blue waters, browning grasses, and one tree struggling into fashionable shades of orange. Mostly the trees, protected by the water from normal temperature variations, simply brown up and strip to branches in whatever gales come along.

Those who become truly involved in the natural diversity around them notice things that most of us blindly ignore. Even in the most dense city, there are now trees changing, weeds going to seed, and of course the unnatural human reminders as mums, Halloween decorations, and (lately) a lot of flowering kale replace the summer blooms in tended flower beds. But this is also the really busy social time, when work is coming into its peak, family is already concentrating on the holidays ahead, and little home problems like gutters, leaves, and bringing in patio stuff takes time. For those with children, even more so, since the soccer and football and other final outdoor sports are reaching their full frenzy of weekend games and tournaments. I’m somewhat glad most of that is behind me, and at least I can enjoy the quiet shoreline with not much else to worry about.

Sun-

Still very much like summer, in some views. Unless you are really paying attention to the yellowing Ailanthus leaves, you could assume it is July. That’s why we need not only all our own senses, but also our memory of time and pattern to determine where we are. Our experience is far more immense and complex than some of the current theoreticians of artificial intelligence and mechanical minds seem to comprehend.

There are really only two goals in robotic “intelligence.” One is to replace menial human slaves with machines _ and if the machines are to serve as slaves they must never have any consciousness at all. The other, totally different, aim is to make a longer lasting replacement for our current “wetware.” That seems Quixotic to me, but on the other hand mechanical prosthesis have been becoming more and more capable each year. I take some comfort in knowing either of these developments would occur, if at all, long after I would care at all.

Summer Fades

Mon-

Early autumn morning mist softens the far shore, as the bright seaweed glistens exposed by the receding tide. Once in a while, it is good to simply empty the mind and rejoice in the beauty of our world.
Tue-

As the sun rises later and later, my habitual strolls continue to occur at about the same human clock time each morning. So the landscape is subtly changed with the angle of the sun, if I simply pay attention to the scene. In another three months, walking at this time of day would be practically dawn were it not for the _ once more human convention _ of changing the clocks on daylight saving time.

You would expect people in tune with nature to set their activities in time with their circadian rhythms, but of course that is silly. Since we used fire _ which may have preceded homo sapiens _ we have determined our own sunset, using campfires to artificially prolong the day when we consider it too short. The blunt truth is that the foundations of our species lie in pushing back against the easiest “natural” path to do what we want, and when we want.

Wed-

Now come the “spectacular colors” as all the travel advisories from countless little towns you have never heard of flood the media. Time the trip and arrive at peak color! Spend some days (and some money) and enjoy the spectacle all around! Whole forests and mountains draped in red, yellow, and orange!

I always wonder if it is not just as rewarding to study a few leaves, like these, each spectacular in its own right, or a single brilliantly red maple on a clear pond, such as we have at several places. After all, one leaf, well observed, is often quite as remarkable as a tree containing ten thousand. And a tree containing ten thousand brilliant fluttering leaves is surely just as wonderful as trying to take in ten thousand trees in the hazy distance. At least these days, I like to remain close to home and try to truly notice all the subtle and startling changes as these weeks progress.

Thu-

Heavy misting rain off and on heralds the changes to come, softening the glows of yellow and green and blurring the far horizon. You at least do not have to stand here getting wet and cold while taking the picture, but that experience is important too. From here on its an extended set of spurts to biting wind and bare branches.

Long Island needs the rain _ TV meteorologists report we are in a “rain deficit” for the month. Averages are human things _ nature could care less _ and we try to attach them to reality with misguided certainty. Rain in October is part of the cycle of fall, regardless of the calendar. But it sometimes does feel that if global warming is doing anything at all noticeable in the short term, it would seem to be adding to extremes _ harder storms, longer dry spells. All I can do is appreciate each day uniquely as it arrives.
Fri-

Something has to lead the parade, and it seems certain trees _ whether from species or location or individual genetic difference _ are always the first to change color. After a while, you seek them out as avidly as any flower in spring. There is something nearly more
dramatic about brilliant orange or red against a solid green background, than the same effect lost among a myriad of other flaming displays.

One of my faults is to frequently forget that trees are individuals, as different from each other as any animals. But from nursery school, I’ve mentally plopped them into the landscape as brown sticks with a round green blob on top. Being aware of tree differences is a good exercise in appreciating the infinite variety of every little corner of our world.
Sat-

The golden locust trees in the distance are at “peak” and will be stripped in the next rain. Autumn gets down to business from here on, one wave after another. The vine in the foreground shows the dramatic effects of slight differences in wind direction and exposure, but soon enough minor differences will be engulfed by the ongoing larger weather trends.

Like the spring, early October around here is a time to inspect and enjoy quickly or not at all. Trees can become brilliant and then gone in what seems a flash _ green one day, glorious orange the next, all brown and falling soon after. With eyes wide open you can go by a familiar place day after day and _ if you are really looking closely _ find it hardly recognizable. There’s a metaphor there for those who are old, like me, but I’d prefer not to explore that further and instead concentrate on the beauty of eternal events.
Sun-

First real chill is blowing across the harbor (although in three months this would be felt as an incredibly balmy, almost tropical day.) Goldenrod is losing its bloom and concentrating all its remaining strength on rapidly producing seeds for the coming years. For an organism to grow and thrive and just before it withers and dies produce the next generation is completely alien to humans, who procreate (and think about procreation-related activities) incessantly until they are old, when _ well, not so much.

Why an individual person hangs around after genetic species necessities are fulfilled is the subject of some debate among biologists. I think it is simply that humans found a way (biologically) to introduce continuity of culture, which strengthens the tribe and its chances of survival. In societies without writing, it is the elders who are the repository of folk knowledge, taboo, mysteries, learning, and religion. It is elders who can lend a more dispassionate voice in councils of activity and war, and although they may not be always be wise nor relevant, their advice can provide welcome perspective and counterpoint to the frantic immediacy of youthful decision making. Of course, an elder would naturally claim that ….

Equinox Waltz

Mon-

Raindrops and mist, warm moist days followed by cool dry sun, loud insects muted as temperature lowers, swirls of leaves more frequently filling the air and carpeting below _ this is the beginning of a powerful waltz which twirls us around in a gripping rhythm, reminding us of warm times going by and indications of harsh moments to come. There is repetition and progression and no matter how many times we have heard it the tune is lovely and irresistible and just a little melancholy.

The full orchestra naturally includes people and their activities, like the brass and drum section. Dead trees are being chainsawed before they have to bear the weight of snow, rapidly growing grass is being cut furiously, suburbanites annoyed at each blemish on emerald expanse have decreed that leaf blowers strain endlessly to eliminate the offense _ modern day king Canutes forbidding the tide to come it. All that crash and cosmic irony is also part of the harmony, although I sometimes have to extend myself a bit to appreciate it.
Tue-

The middle of Long Island is not rural and doesn’t pretend to be as do the remnants of the east end with their increasingly pretentious remaining farms and vineyards. Two acre zoning is the most expensive and spacious for local McMansions, and the age of gold coast robber barons is long gone (although current financial barons

Manage to continue to buy the old properties.) But we do have a few preserved remnants of the centuries old ten or so acre family farms that once covered the area.

This is one of them, a meadow filled with goldenrod and milkweed and thistle, resounding with the chirps of insects and cries of birds, drying under the cool breezes. Upland farm was deeded to and is run by the Nature Conservancy (which was founded near here) for wildlife, and still gives a small hit of what used to be. I love taking an hour here and there no matter what the climate and weather to reroot myself in the real world, almost free of attachments, always part of the greater web of what is.
Wed-

Early indicators on the ornamentals in the parking lot at the beach. Leaves take over the stage for the next month, first in the wonderful colors, then in the drama of being stripped or blown off the branches, then finally in the effort to remove them from their natural resting place and cart them off to somewhere where they will not do nearly so much good. The forest is rejuvenated by their decay each year, but here we prefer to fertilize our yards artificially instead.

Like the rest of the seasonal changes, the first indications of this seem miraculous, a spot of wonderful colors in a sea of green. Then, except for occasional attempts to view something special, we tend to take everything for granted, seeing little day by day. By the end of fall, we just want to get it over with and move on to winter with the promise of spring to come. I often have wondered how much of our cultural attitudes in the moderate northern hemisphere are triggered by all this _ how easily we get bored, for example, or how worried we always are about what may come next. Anyway, this morning had its truly lovely sights.
Thu-

Another large meadow around here is at Caumsett on Lloyd Neck. This small peninsula on the North Shore was too sandy and hilly and remote for much more than local farming, so it stayed in large parcels owned by the original (European) families for centuries. Then Marshall Fields decided to make it into a working Olde English Farm, complete with peasants and cows. Eventually, the heirs gave it to the state as a park, and it now remains a wonderful large place filled with birds and deer and these fields. You can actually pretend you are in Wisconsin or upstate or, for that matter, back in the Colonial period.

Except, of course, you are not, as the jet planes and helicopters will all too frequently remind you. But for moments, it is wonderful to walk empty fields, watch the butterflies and listen to nature. This spot always for me represents the heart of the season here, whatever day it is, a perfectly natural moment in an often unnatural environment. Of course, I ignore the fact that to have a field they must mow the grasses down each year _ the true natural state of all New England is old growth gloomy forest. Meadows around here are a sure sign of humanity, and have been since the ice age.Fri-

A fair representation of changes about to happen fast. Flowers, green trees, mild coloration. In another month, the flower bed will be brown, a lot of the trees will be stripped, and whatever leaves remain will definitely not be the same color. October can be very dramatic, but in a nice kind of way, before the really nasty weather arrives. Unless, of course, we have early snow.

Some times we feel that way about our lives, that somehow we are on a calm plateau but we intuit that it cannot remain so long. Unfortunately, in a bad way, reaching towards your seventies is one of those times. In spite of the hopeful braying of media and snake-oil salesmen, observation shows me that however you may enter that decade, you will not long remain unscathed. But right now _ well, the leaves are still green, aren’t they?
Sat-

Montauk daisies are not, I think, “true” daisies in the sense of being members of the compositae family. But they sure look like daisies, except for the somewhat succulent leaves. They can live in almost desert like conditions, out on sand dunes, where they are a welcome splash of beautiful lushness amid drying stalks of summer grasses.

I always favor bits of nature that seem out of step with everything else. Montauk daisies bloom fiercely when it seems just about everything else is packing up. Witch hazel is another favorite, blooming in February which seems a completely futile endeavor. These odd peculiarities make me, with my own idiosyncrasies compared to everyone else, feel much more accepted and part of the whole.
Sun-

Old dead trees, like some of the artifacts we leave behind, hang around for a few years before disappearing into the common maw of the past and gone. They seem more permanent than the quickly browning grasses and poison ivy around them, or the blue sky, or the quiet surface of the water. But most wise philosophers have discovered that anything in the world beyond our consciousness is largely illusion.

A very pretty illusion today, and the temperature and sun are just as nice, the serenade of insects and birds a lovely background in the susurration of the wind through the leaves. Like all answers to the basic question “why”, the proper response to “why should I care about an illusion” is simply “because”.