Sabbatical

As I continue my meditative sabbatical, I continue to try to get out and around, but without the edge of thinking what I may write or what pictures I should take. That has been refreshing and rejuvenating. In the heart of winter, the Huntington area remains as beautiful as anywhere else on Earth. I begin my new quest with that as one of the core elements of my fortunate life.
A few pictures from Crab Meadow and Northport on a relatively moderate day with heavy cold fog.

Evaluation

Harbor has iced all the way across, not so thick yet as to crush remaining boats in the inexorable tides.

Holidays, New Year, and extreme cabin-fever-inducing weather have combined with hysterical political television and crowded family duties to create personal malaise. Part of that is simply adjusting to everything in my life that has changed. The old schedules and routines do not hold, and all my energy is required to readjust.
So for a while this blog is cut back severely. Sometimes there will be no entries. At the moment, I plan not much in the way of ongoing work until March. By then, it may resume or not, it may have moved somewhere else, it probably will have a new focus and format.
But as of now I predict nothing. My creative mind feels as frozen as the bay.

Goodwill To All

Monday

Sunset which exemplifies the glory and hope of this bitter cold season.

Humans, like most primates, are tribally social. Unlike other primates, we are so complicated that we can belong to many tribes at once, often of our own conception. We have blood and marriage families, work, politics, neighbors, clubs and, in fact, tribes of almost any obsession we might have. Including purely virtual tribes on media and internet. Literature and history are full of the anxiety we endure determining our true loyalties when differing tribal duties conflict.
Common end of year celebrations in this newly interconnected world are representative of both the hope and problems of trying to get all our tribes to relate peacefully to one another. Wishing goodwill to everyone is all very well so long as we believe they are truly just like us. Unfortunately, another primate trait is that the various tribes formed in those species often taunt, scream at, and try to hurt each other as part of their common experience.

Tuesday

Joan lovingly decorates our tree each year, complaining even as she enjoys remembering the story of each ornament.

In spite of too large a human population, most of the world is swimming in abundance compared to earlier times. There is generally more food, clothing, and shelter for each person than there once was, and more security that it will all continue to be available day by day. For the moment, commercial ties have overcome most wars and crime. Even the most rapacious would rather be billionaires in a peaceful paradise than megalomaniac warlords holding power with uncertain paranoid force.
Appropriately, at commonly accepted year end, gift giving has become a common and universal tradition. It is all crassly commercial, of course, and filled with very strange and varied mythology and symbols, but the core gesture remains benign. There have definitely been worse times to be alive, and many worse worries into the next year. Smile and be grateful and hope that these traditions will endure and continue for many solar cycles to come.

Wednesday

Afternoon sun illuminates high icy crystals across the emptied sea.

God bless us one and all ….
… except for terrorists, some politicians and _ oh, yeah _ that idiot who just cut me off …

Thursday

Placid swans are relatively unaffected by unusually frigid temperature.

Our theme for Christmas gathering this year was unfortunately “everyone has the flu.” Coughing and general tired misery set the tone. We managed moments of merriment, as was proper, but generally it was hard to project a constantly happy outlook with snow, deep cold, sneezing and wheezing.
A lesson in that was that although our travails were extremely minor, in terms relative to real problems, I still had too much tendency to sink into general cynicism. Like all the political news of the last year, irrelevant issues could affect my mood. One of my resolutions for the coming year will be to remain as a lily of the field, unaffected by anything beyond my local sky and enchanting meadow.

Friday

Fallen branch stripped by wind of last storm lies in the light fluffy snow, tardy white Christmas after all.

First garbage pickup after Christmas is a big one. Boxes, bags, cardboard, whatever are piled high at the end of most driveways. A sign of affluence, the problems of waste disposal and overuse of Earth’s resources in a nutshell. As is the morning pickup, in 11 degree cold, using massive amounts of fossil fuels to send the products of other fossil fuel use to either be burned or buried.
But is it ever worth being Cassandra? Predicting doom and disaster is easy, and often even makes older people feel righteous. Spreading unhappiness will solve nothing, and never has. The human cycle remains dust to dust, life engages in its objectively hopeless fight against entropy, and yet we smile and laugh and have wonderful consciousness to appreciate our eternal moments. For all the stupidity of waste of the season, an awful lot of joy has also been delivered to everyone. Maybe that is the most important thought of the day.

Saturday

Light fluffy stuffing around greenery provides appropriate background to holiday decorative accents.

“Bah blah nah yeah.” Nicholas tears paper off, more interested in the wrapping than the present inside.

“Isn’t that cute?” asks Patricia.

“Let me get a picture,” insists Joan.

“He won’t remember any of this,” notes Greg. “He’s only two.”

“This whole thing is just for the grandparents,” observes uncle Wayne cynically.

“No, “ I remark. “This who thing is for you adults, who will one day realize how special it is to have a young child and parents still alive.”

“Stop! Stop! You can’t eat that!” screams everybody.

“Goo blah whah bam….”

Sunday

Some of the scenery of the season is, naturally, indoors.

Life bless ye merry gentlefolk, let nothing you dismay

Remember every year the world’s reborn upon this day

And all the ills that once had been are past and in decay

Oh headlines of comfort and joy (don’t we all wish?)

Oh headlines of comfort and joy.

Short Shorts

Monday

Light hovers on the horizon under dark skies as winter solstice approaches.

We (should have) learned in fifth grade that around December 21 is winter solstice, the shortest day of the year in the Northern Hemisphere. Not only does the earth radiate heat away for most of the 24 hours, but the warming rays of the sun are slanted and not as effective as at other times. Intuition tells us this would be the coldest day of the year as well. Not true. Days remain shorter than nights until around March 21 _ this part of the Earth continues to lose heat. So intuition would think that maybe spring equinox is the coldest.
Temperatures actually trail the solar path by a little over month, so coldest days are at end January and early February. And a lot depends on general cloud overcast, snow cover, jet stream path, what fronts the Canadians hurl at us, and strange terms like “polar vortex” that meteorologists keep inventing.
Like so much of science, fifth grade conceptions are often generally right but specifically wrong. I’m very glad, because such chaotic unpredictability is what makes our real world so marvelous and constantly surprising.

Tuesday

Flocks of ducks loudly proclaim their intention of staying around for a while as the weather warms a bit.

Living close to nature has become romanticized. Genealogy has some people dreaming of life as a Native American, or a Celt, or in the wild Teutonic tribes. The ancient foods, practices, religions, rituals, spirits made life more meaningful than in these degenerate times. Most of those imaginings _ for good reason _ focus on happy summer days, the freshness of spring, the tang of crisp autumn.
In reality, as winter closed in at northern latitudes Nature became harsh, painful, and raw terror. Famine and freezing were constant concerns. Nights passed with nothing to break 16 or more hours of darkness. The tales related by 17^th century French fur traders concerning how Neolithic peoples of the American west starved, suffered, and often died in unbelievable misery are astounding.
All in all, I vote in favor of these degenerate times.

Wednesday

Sun sets about as far south as it ever gets, almost early afternoon.

Rage, rage against the dying of the light …
But sometimes teasingly brilliant noontimes on frigid days are even more cruel.

Thursday

A tiny local grotto along the shoreline road frozen into interesting patterns as cold set in.

I think the quality of sunlight is a little different around winter solstice. The lower sun is naturally redder, just as it is at sunset. Frequently present ice crystals in the upper air scatter the light more evenly. There are peculiar effects from angles and reflections on the clouds, with orange patches even in the middle of the day through breaks in dark clouds.
On the other hand, I am never quite sure how much of that is real. Just as I easily learn to make any perceptions normal, I can make any perceptions fit my logic or mood. If I believe light is altered, I will probably see it as being so. Doesn’t much matter, as long as I enjoy what I am looking at and try to be conscious of its beauty.

Friday

Low orange light lines a dark solstice horizon, with harbor lighthouse hulking behind bar branches.

Winter solstice has been stripped of its terror, and it is subsumed into general worldwide celebrations of a common end of year. There is no reason to feel bad about that, it’s now just another part of the natural calendar. Those who regret the passing of ancient rites and rituals may mourn its decline, but anyone with sense knows the modern world _ slick and smooth and always the same _ is far preferable to the bipolar roller coaster of feast and famine.
Traditions are at least maintained in the display of lights everywhere fighting back against the early fall of night. There is something hauntingly pathetically beautiful in a tree lit against dark snow by dinnertime. It can be seen as a statement against cynicism, depression, and the oncoming inevitable. In fact, it is surely more just a continuation of what has always been done, which in itself is a kind of miracle.

Saturday

This dirt path looks perfectly set to carry us to grandma’s house.

“Goodnight, Chip. Pleasant dreams.”

“You too, Dale.”

“Did you stuff yourself enough this year?” asks the first chipmunk.

“Oh, sure. That feeder every day was full. It was just great. I didn’t even have to look much.”

“See you in the spring, then. Stay warm.”

“Zzzzz ….”

Hibernation sets in suddenly this solstice.

Saturday

Another view of special light at this time of year.

Once dark silent world, growing cold

Now city lights reflect all night, confusing birds and other creatures

Once people beginning a sluggish cycle for months of grim survival

Now grand shopping sprees and feasts

Once fears lurked right outside every window, if there was a window

Now fears are huge and worse, but at least far away.

Hey,, Old Man!

Monday

First snowfall of this winter just severe enough to transform views from our windows.

A few weeks after Santa Claus arrived in town on a fire truck, Old Man Winter blew in with a bit more fanfare, dumping 5 inches locally on top of a small ice storm. Enough to make our sandy hills difficult, and the steep driveway almost impossible. Predictions now are for more flurries and a string of extremely cold days and nights.
This was thick white stuff, coating trees’ limbs with more depth than the still relatively warm ground. Good for making snow creatures (even OMW is learning to be PC.) Still more beautiful than annoying, as the first appearance of snow always is.

Tuesday

Lovely blue harbor is clear of boats and buoys and fringed with remnants of last snowfall.

Anticipation of a snowstorm is shared by young and old _ and few in the middle. Those who wish to have no school and who have nowhere in particular to be on any given day can glory in the possible disruption of routines by slippery or impassible roads. For those fortunate few, first flakes are eagerly awaited, and the hush during the event enjoyed immensely from the warmth of their living rooms.
After any significant accumulation, a quiet beautiful white coating has transformed the world. Often the sun, accompanied by a cutting cold breeze, sparkles on lacy branches and blanketed evergreens. Snowplows struggle by. In a few hours snowblowers will crank up. But for just a while, the local universe gleams new and pristine and lovely and all good things seem possible.

Wednesday

Salt meadows have turned gold, accented under dark blue storm clouds.

The driveway’s lovely, dark, and deep …
My environment, alas, does not match that of Robert Frost

Thursday

Patrol craft heads into frigid waters, trees finally stripped to bare branches.

People seek omens. We find ones that support our views and interpret them to match our own outlooks. So while the weather has been warmer than normal, everyone who is concerned about global warming claim it was a precursor of what will come. When unexpectedly harsh winter storms roll in early, those who fear the coming winter claim this proves it will be a blustery one.
The key to weather perspective is “average,” that fictional normal. We accept that winter must be colder than summer, that there is a range of “usual” storms and temperatures, that any given day may differ considerably from what happens around it. But nature is never average. It delivers its effects in clumps rather than a smooth gravy, and we are too immersed to keep perspective.

Friday

The beach is in full winter mode now, ice on deck, people stopping by for a few minutes at most.

Winter wonderland may last for two or three days, but then it turns into winter slum. Car exhausts darken roadside snow, puddles gather trash and refreeze into ugliness. Patches of muddy ground show through crusty slush. The tree branches, of course, are long bare and back to looking forlorn.
Early in the season, this tragic change happens quickly and all returns to normal. But by February there is an ongoing glacier of disposal dump everywhere, blackened shapes rule former snowdrift, and all the new layers do is temporarily hide the nastiness beneath. Even driveways become corroded with sand and salt in an often vain attempt to keep cars from slipping around during trips to the garage. By then, of course, all thoughts have longingly turned to spring.

Saturday

Second snowfall of the week coats the neighborhood, just before the third storm arrives as temperatures remain in 20’s.

“Where has all the food gone,” asks a first-year cardinal of another. “It always used to be here. Now there is just this … whatever it is.”

“Snow,” answers an older brother. “This white stuff is snow. You’ll see a lot more of it soon.”

“But what about finding something to eat?”

“Oh, now is time to look on trees. You’ll see, there’s a lot to feast on. Well, at least for now.”

“What do you mean by that?” asks the little one anxiously.

“Never mind,” replies the other. We’ll both find out soon enough as months go on.”

Sunday

Outside lights barely penetrate heavy wet snow after another few inches wear out winter’s immanent arrival.

Old Man Winter, he brought snow

Caused the harsh North wind to blow

With a knick knack paddy whack freezing to the bone

Old Man Winter came roaring home.

Lights Fights

Monday

Lights and wreath more symbolic than visible from the road, but one of our anchors to Christmas past.

Once Thanksgiving goes by, Christmas light on homes begin to appear. This year everything is a little early, at least for those who participate at all. What with people off to Florida, just getting too old to care, or protesting commercialization, there is a strange mix of excess and non-participation. Or perhaps it was always like this and I never noticed.
Part of the rhythm is dictated by work schedules and anticipated weather. It used to be a lot was accomplished on weekends, when suddenly Sunday night would be illuminated. But now with people working odd hours, or not at all in extended households, and with others hiring crews, and technology being what it is, a massive demonstration can spring up any day of the week. Like flicking a switch. At some point, I suddenly realize I am behind the curve and pull out the annual offerings at my wife’s insistence.

Tuesday

Cheerful lawn decorations to appreciate during the day.

Beachcroft runs the full range of decorations. Some houses are fully lit, although only one extravaganza “nouveau riche” exists down at the harbor. Some houses show nothing at all, either not Christian or pure bah humbug. A few more or less tasteful lawn candy canes or elves pop onto lawns.
Generally, however, this neighborhood is subdued. The season is noted, a small display is welcome, and solstice blues are resisted with twinkles. It has remained warm enough to walk around and enjoy the ambience during early evening.

Wednesday

Unusually warm day hazes background, while foreground demonstrates the arrival of December.

Star light, star bright few stars to see tonight.
Sky is always overwhelmed by haze, town glow, and aircraft.

Thursday

Arrival of a supermoon also brings in super high tides, filled with newly dried flotsam.

Displaying lights is one way of keeping off the ancient terror of solstice short days with deep cold and snow right around the corner. Today, in spite of our comforts, problems sometimes seem worse and worse _ particular for those who take the media seriously. Having a gaudy brightly lit property is apparently one way of fighting back.
America consumerism preaches the sermon of purchasing meaning, in houses or cars or jobs or _ at this time of year_ with so much illumination outside that a place threatens to outdo the sun if turned on during the day. Each homeowner a midget Medici, showing how mighty the family has become.

Friday

Nature has not yet quite given up on a display of colors, but you have to look hard.

I admit I enjoy going out and looking at the beautiful evening show. It is easy to be a curmudgeon and make fun of all the hoopla, but holiday lights are an American tradition, especially a 1950’s and on American tradition It is comforting to see it repeated year after year.
The conspicuous consumption and environmental degradation aspects of all this used to be more of a concern, but with the new LED lights even those have faded. And, after all, it is only for a little while, some few weeks. Although, like everything else these days, I note the tendency to keep them up longer and longer, sometimes even year round

Saturday

Much more enjoyable night scene than the security lighting we usually have to endure.

“That’s beautiful,” exclaims Joan, as we drive past another commercial display of trees wrapped in blue
sparkles.

“Remember when we used to drive the kids around in the evening?” I ask.

“Oh, yeah, and my father too. Those were wonderful times.”

“This year there seem to be more and more,” I remark.

“Tacky,” she agrees, “Especially the blow up figures crowding the lawns.”

“Well, they were after our time, I guess.”

“I wish we could wrap our trees like that,” she sighs.

“I’m not about to break my bones climbing around like that. Of course, when I was a kid, it was my job to climb up the big fir out front to put up the high lights.”

Sunday

What is “tasteful” varies with whatever current fad has arrived recently _ all-white is in.

The snows of yesteryear may be gone

Today’s remains fresh

Soon to join its ancestors

Perhaps something to ponder

Perhaps simply to enjoy now

Heavy Skies

Monday

Dark clouds never show when you want them _ bright day, white stretches, no complaints.

This summer was full of rain, but those storms seemed filled with light anyway. November rains and November skies are different. Perhaps because the sun is dimmer and lower, clouds are dark and threatening, dramatic and purple. When darkness accompanies precipitation scenes are cast into deep twilight.
Now there are many fewer hours of daylight. Only a few of them, on the best of days, are filled with bright sparkle and blinding flash. When that happens, the contrast with the “new normal” is all the more intense. Far more often such moments feel like temporary breaks in some coming apocalypse, heralded by the moaning swish of dry falling leaves and the deep cutting chill of raw wind.

Tuesday

Low tide exposes rocks and old pilings, reminding us of spare months to come.

We can easily find patterns in ink blots, reflections, leaves, fate, tea leaves, entrails, history, economics, politics, and clouds. Faces, dragons, random images appear to warn, frighten, entertain, or soothe. Our rational natures know it is our projections that create these shapes, but our deeper reptile emotions believe there must be truth lurking behind what we intuit.
Most of the time we hardly notice clouds, except as comment on likely weather. Once in a while we may admire ethereal beauty in a sunset, or enjoy a frisson of danger as thunderclouds sweep near. Yet they are always there, in reality or potential, framing a large chunk of our outside world.
November clouds signal holidays to me _ Thanksgiving, Christmas, New Year. Their immense dark waves, or thick quilts, or foggy damp should create a mood of gloom. Yet I feel none, I am secured against these wisps of vapor, and I have carefully buried most of my hidden fears under the rush of exciting days upcoming.

Wednesday

Hardly typical of November, a solitary puff floats over the dock.

I wandered lonely as a cloud …
Clouds are rarely alone in the sky, often massing in crowds, mobs, and hordes.

Thursday

Reeds in final feathery fall splendor before being ravaged by storm and snow.

Late fall is muted earth colors, as all the flash and dazzle of summer blooms and spectacular dying gasps of foliage fade and fall more or less silently away. As the world turns brown, the sky takes its turn at dominance, and will hold it for a while. Are those fair weather clouds, or wind, or rain, or possibly a blizzard?
The various changes wrought by overcast have their own effect on the hues seen below. A clear sky seems to give true colors _ until we observe the blue of snow from reflections. Purple or grey overhead sets its own deep patterns on everything. And we become aware how a seemingly warm day can suddenly turn cold and raw whenever a shadow occludes the sun _ accompanied by immediate darkness that chills right back into our soul.

Friday

I am too amateur to retouch such views from our porch, sometimes mesmerizing for half an hour or so.

Skies have apparently always held portents, from meteors to supernovae to the creeping of the sun lower or higher each day except at the equator. More transient flights of birds and cloud patterns were also thrown into the mix. Clouds, at least, do more or less equate to what may happen. Winter coming back in the northern hemisphere, snow, or rain herald a true time of changes and often hardship.
Surely blood-red sunsets were more meaningful to native American than the usual midsummer cheerful displays of sparkling gold and crimson. Perhaps there were fewer such back before heavy industrial pollution. Even in our science-minded time, it seems hard to ignore what such clouds are trying to tell us.

Saturday

Wind clouds crouch on the northern horizon, beyond this patch of clear crisp breeze.

“Hey Carl, nice day! Dig out the winter gear yet?”

Carl glances up at the threatening cloudbank hovering on the northern horizon. “About a week ago. But this month it’s pretty useless no matter what.”

“Just colder, that’s all …” I begin

“No, you know better. Rain is much warmer. It’s the clear days that come with frigid temperatures.”

“Well, sometimes,” I admit. We both sense the freshening breeze.

“True mostly,” he insists. “Gotta run, still a mile to go and I’m not sure I have the time.”

“Right, have a nice day.” I speed up a bit myself as the first drizzled drops begin.

Sunday

Crystalline waters free of algae with a few floating leaves reflect impossibly complicated possible patterns.

Dark low clouds may fit my mood

Or I may find they contradict

I alone invest portent

It’s true the world is but a stage

But we are not bit players here

I am sole author of this play

Plot and meaning, self and clouds.

Its only audience.

Thanks! But?

Monday

Morning sun through Japanese maple leaves generates an incredible stained glass magnificence.

These days I always seem to be in the best of times, with the fear of the worst of times upcoming. Every morning I am infinitely grateful for all I have, tangible and intangible. My particular life is a festival and wonder. My worst sin would be not recognizing that is so. Thanks on any given day are required.
This culture always expects a “but.” There are always counterarguments to optimism, happiness, and hope. I hear them all the time; I try to resist. When I do, even I recognize I sometimes seem like some shallow bumpkin unable to appreciate the cares and woes of the adults in the room.
I try to purge myself of envy of those who seem to have more. I try to avoid guilt for those who have less. I try to appreciate each moment as the treasure it is. And I work on shoving most of my worries into the constant future where they belong.

Tuesday

Temporary near-break in thick wind clouds provides all the drama this cold morning.

My amazement starts with breakfast. I know slow eating has become a cultural phenomenon, but mine is more basic. I consciously pause a few of my usual spoonfuls of Cheerios and fresh berries to regard them as miracles. Think of sowing and growing and harvesting and preparing and transporting and selling and then the fact that I have the means to purchase. It is a stream of commerce I can hardly comprehend. And it happens every day, not just on one or two special times a year.
The little things that everyone _ and I admit myself _ takes for granted are everywhere. My house is warm and dry. A hot morning shower was all but unknown less than a century ago. I am more concerned with keeping my weight down than going hungry. Electricity does my bidding _ but you know how it goes on and on.
I cultivate this sense of wonder and try to find at least one aspect of daily to marvel at. It is scary to realize how tangled our comfortable lives are, and how quickly it might all go wrong.

Wednesday

Light blue sky, dark azure water, white blazing sun shines on trees shedding leaves, harbor losing boats.

“Wheat and tares together sown …”
We still do not know what to do with human weeds in civilized fields.

Thursday

Solitary leaf presides over a dark scene presaging winter.

Awe is essentially a religious feeling, far deeper than mere appreciation. Awe involves suddenly being struck by the immensity of everything and how impossible our existence is. For example, I can never comprehend the fact that I exist _ my trillions of cells, billions or trillions of synapses possibly outnumbering stars in the universe, my ongoing microsecond chemical changes everywhere in perfect harmony and furious activity. And that is before I even open my senses and look at what is around. Before I even remember there is a past filled with more miracles. Before I have time to worry about what it all means or is it connected or might there be some grand unknowable plan.
Logically minded scientific principles would seem to narrow this to less infinite answers. But science never avoids awe. The more that is known, the more ridiculously impossible our lives seem. The more incongruously joyful my life has been. I cannot even begin to understand, for that matter, the foundation of my most important traits such as the ability to sense happiness.
This holiday, I pledge to cultivate awe more assiduously. Awe of being as a foundation for religious impulse is probably completely “meet and proper.”

Friday

Final fall colors blaze before endless wind and rain herald the new season.

Leftovers are often served with gravy. In the fifties, gravy was a standard way to hide odd flavors or to extend food. Gravy was found on many of my dinners, on school lunches, on commercial offerings, on the brand-new frozen TV dinners. That gravy of old was thick, and rich, and salty, and fatty, and made poor pickings seem elegant.
But, by the same token, it was a lower middle class standard. Wealthy people might eat roasts “au jus” but creamed and gravy-laden fare was for stick-to-the-ribs working folks. The “gravy train” _ a ticket to work a little less for a secure income _ was an aspiration of those whose lives were filled with relentless jobs and barely adequate income.
With increasing wealth and choice, gravy and cream are rarely featured on recipes, except at nostalgic moments
such as with Thanksgiving turkey. Those who embrace the imagined glow of such times should sometimes reflect on what gravy _ and for that matter feast days themselves _ imply about normal life the rest of the time.

Saturday

All that remains of a once-vibrant pine along the shore, the last of its kind in that habitat.

Joan and I sit alone, dining on remembrances this Thanksgiving.

“Oh,” she says with a sigh, “I miss those old days with everyone here.”

“Yeah, I know,” I reply. “Your Mom cooking, your Dad proud, brothers chatting while young kids run around and your cousins and aunts stopping by all day, maybe us visiting around a little.”

“Wasn’t it all amazing? What happened?”

“Death, of course. Growing up. Moving away. You know that. But we still have the memories of good times.”

“It’s all changed now,” she complains. “I wish we could at least get our kids to come back.”

“The world itself has changed,” I say for the hundredth time. “Greg has to work, Wayne is too far, and we ourselves are a little too busy and tired to rush about visiting.”

“But it should be more special.”

“Maybe. I don’t think so. Every day is special, and we can always have another dinner when they are here.”

“It’s not the same,” she claims with finality.

Sunday

Last seeds cling to dry stalks as autumn winds shift to winter strength and night chill turns to freeze.

Amazing grace, a pretty tune

Used too frequently

I don’t feel at all like a wretch

Though I may sometimes seem one

My universe is more eternal than ten thousand years

And encompasses infinite realms real and unreal

What I experience in my universe is all the universe there is

As is your own

Solipsistic madness perhaps

More likely truth.

Free Falling

Monday

The reluctant deluge has just begun and is beautifully transforming in its own unique way.

I am as fickle as the next person. On any given day I can happily accept the weather or fretfully resist. My mood varies by season and by my interpretation of season.
For example, spring can be long and dreary and endless, promise with no fulfillment. Or it can be a time of wonderful surprise as hidden things grow and blossom. Summer hot and sticky and stultifying or a fantastic feast of senses. And fall _ well October always seems a month of sadness, encapsulating all that is going away and being lost, expanding beyond the yard, the horizon, the skies themselves until it encompasses aging itself.
But now _ well for me that has passed. As nights chill down to frost and days struggle to retain memory of heat, I discover new purpose. Fortify against the coming winter. Enjoy nature closing the show, as I would the deconstruction of a traveling tent circus. Make plans for dark evenings and fireside meditation. Await the first snow with expectation, and get into the spirit of our over-the-top end of year festivities.
I admit I am inconstant beyond measure or logic.

Tuesday

Bittersweet fruit at peak of perfection, a cheery holiday accent and presumed delicacy for birds.

Raking leaves when I was employed was a tremendous chore, squeezed into weekend hours between other errands. I used a rake and enjoyed the silence and felt virtuous at engaging in outside exercise. These days, there is no silence, I have all the time necessary, and I have acquired a strong (electric) leaf blower like everyone else.
Maple leaves fall first, thickly matting whenever harsh November rains pelt down. If not removed, they kill grass and smother flower beds, drying their top layers each week for months just enough to continue to blow everywhere. Heavy, ugly, dark, and somehow never decaying the way garden guidebooks proclaim.
Next are the hickories, which are a totally different prospect. These compound leaves remain together, stay dry, cling to everything. Without much weight, their volume fills bag after bag. They hang on shrub branches and if not removed by hand will flap there all winter, looking out of place, annoying by their refusal to move on. Sometimes, I know by experience, they will last another entire season. So they are not just to be raked, but also to be plucked from shrubs by hand.
Oh well. Two or three weeks of effort and it is all literally in the bag for another year.

Wednesday

The brown tide of freezing nights coats everything with a temporary dark varnish like that once applied to old-master paintings.

It is inevitable that each leaf must fall.
It is impossible _ from math, science, common sense _ to predict exactly when.

Thursday

Lovely earth hues frame much of the earth, sea and sky this week.

The relative warmth this year has led to procrastination in winterizing. I found it almost silly to be bringing hoses in, draining and turning off outside water, cleaning summer objects from the patio. The air was warm, the sun hot, the leaves still green. Why not wait just another day, until the clues from the environment matched up with the notes from the calendar?
But with a lifetime of experience, I stayed with the planned schedule. I admit I feel a bit smug now that frost has arrived. Not so much compared to other people _ they can do as they will with no concern from me _ but compared to the myself-that-might-have-been. I can now sit back and warmly laugh at what might have been a nasty business.

Friday

Fat and settled in for the winter, ducks calmly cruise across a shallow pond.

My sky is opening up. Each morning I sit for an hour before a picture window as I nurse my coffee and coax my mind back to full focus. My view is constrained by an azalea bush below, an andromeda along the side _ both stay green all year. No mountains, seas, or city skyline for me _ just a nearby japanese maple tree, and dense huge hickories and oaks beyond that.
All summer, there are mere glimpses of sky. In October the color show begins on various leaves. And finally, through November, light breaks through as leaves fall. Already I there is more openness. Soon there will be clouds, birdflight, and full beams shining through branches. I will be able to view weather as it arrives, and note each snowflake as it falls.
Elsewhen perhaps I would have wished a more dramatic view of surf or hi
gh peaks or towering buildings. But now I am more than content with what is offered and I strive to each day find it miraculous in its own way. As is each sip of coffee that I savor.

Saturday

Shriveling willow streamers blow almost horizontal in a blustery north gale.

Our grandson toddler is wheeled around Hecksher Park, where the leaves are all gold and orange, the geese flock is thick, and the turtles have already gone into hibernation. He wants to talk, perhaps he imagines he is talking, but all that emerges are moans and babble. We talk back anyway.

“errrrrrr. Baw bye brrr.”

“That’s right, Nicholas, see how pretty the trees are.”

“flabbb bbbk hmmmmm”

“Yes, there are a lot of geese this year.”

“heaaaa heaaaa bllllk.”

“We know you really like puppies. That’s a cute one, isn’t it?”

“Arrk arrk bye maa maaan.”

“Little kids are indeed exciting.”

I kick up a few more leaves swirling around my feet as the November winds rush by.

Sunday

Part of a large flock of ducks/geese rides out a strong wind; most will probably move on soon.

A single leaf.

Months old, billions of cells.

Molecules frantically churning light into sugars, water delivered, food produced.

A massively profound miracle.

Discarded.

Life goes on.

Voter Freud

Monday

Flood tide from a full “Hunter’s Moon” as mist softens contours and hues.

In France, he was always portrayed as “the man on the white horse.” A strong leader who could single-handedly solve every problem. A true father for the nation. Our last election, for many, attempted to give us such a person. All that it proved is that one does not have to be a drunk to be an incompetent, mean and abusive parent.
Modern citizens have an Oedipus complex, or maybe just a love/hate relationship with their governments. As libertarians point out, most people want protective security from foreigners and from crime. As liberals claim, most industrialized citizens expect guarantees of at least minimal food, clothing and shelter. The rest is just details _ extremely contentious details.
Everyone hates to pay for it; and nobody likes officious nosy bureaucrats constantly nagging or worse. The nanny state clearly ends with “what is not forbidden is mandatory.” Is there any viable alternative? We vote and hope and the people on white horses promise whatever is necessary to be elected.

Tuesday

Southdown Elementary is a typical cookie-cutter school hastily constructed for the baby boom of the 50’s.

Southdown elementary school serves as our voting place. An easy walk for me, more difficult for others, and inconvenient when I was working. It seems somehow medieval in these electronic times to have to show up anywhere in person and stand in line, be identified, and make a few marks on paper. Yet, I imagine, it is still safer than the internet where it would be relatively easy to create a few million fake virtual citizens.
It brings to mind how very many of our traditions are so outdated as to be ridiculous _ just waiting for reform by the next revolution. Criminal justice should have a special niche for true open and shut cases where public acts are committed observed by camera and confirmed by DNA _ eliminate all the months of stupidity and have the trial and sentencing the next week. There are other practices too numerous to count.
Anyway, I go, I stand in line, I vote, I feel virtuous enough. And yet, I do wonder if all this works any more, or if we are just practicing an ancient superstitious religious rite hoping that it will make our universe or government any better than it might otherwise be.

Wednesday

Vibrant meadow colors glow under threatening skies at Caumsett, days before predicted hard frost.

What a relief it is …
Political phone calls, pamphlets, door visitors, and television ads have finally vanished.

Thursday

Lots of folks fishing off the Cold Spring Harbor docks for striped bass and bluefish, which venture near shore this time of year.

Regulations, like history, are usually written by the winners. The winners these days are large corporations or organized guilds _ and no matter how well-intentioned any regulation might be initially, its inevitable outcome is to raise barriers to entry, promote oligopoly and monopoly, and help employ legions of lawyers who assure that only the wealthy can use it to advantage.
Furthermore, many regulations are passed by amateurs who are only concerned with public relations and winning elections. Most of them are directed at abuses by a few, rewritten into unintelligibility by highly paid lobbyists and applied harshly to everyone. As Anatole France noted: “The law, in its majestic equality, forbids rich and poor alike to sleep under bridges, to beg in the streets, and to steal their bread.” A regulation by its very essence lacks common sense. It is applied by the letter of the law, never by its intent. A few old people sharing wine at a table in a park may not be the same as a gang of drunken teenagers ravaging the landscape, but both are equally forbidden by the same ordinance.
The wealthy hate taxes. They need no parks because they have estates, no food or home inspections because they purchase impeccably, no schools because they use private tutors, no roads because their servants can find a way or use helicopters, no social safety net because they cover their own. They want lots of police to keep the rabble under control, and strong courts to enforce the contracts which assure their wealth. They are, as the saying goes, different from you and me.
Most of the population hates meddlesome bureaucrats, and the most hard working or entrepreneurial middle class hates them most of all.

Friday

At least one patch of red in front of all the boats now being frantically landed and stored.

Politicians are not necessarily evil, but like everyone else in this supposedly meritocratic society they have a big chip on their shoulder from being cheated out of their rightful due. In a position of power, they seek to guarantee their own financial and physical security, not only during their own terms, but for ages to come.
This is most apparent in recent developments in our town hall, where security is now similar to that at major airports. God forbid an angry citizen should be able to get to the taxation clerks. Spare no expense lest the bureaucracy should be confronted in their sacred duties.

Saturday

Reeds already in winter mode as a hard frost sweeps into town on whitecap-driving north wind.

Political phone calls, political ads on television, political fliers flood the mail.

“I may be awful, but I’m not as bad as my opponent.”

“Don’t vote for her, she got a bad mark on her permanent record in 5^th grade.”

“My opponent may not be evil incarnate, but he is trying hard.”

“If you are unhappy about anything, it’s all their fault.”

“The barbarians are at the gates and she wants to open the gates and serve them dinner.”

If only they were honest and said something like

“Hey, I can do this as well as anybody, since everybody is so bad. Put me on the gravy train and I will be eternally grateful
Sunday

After the freeze, before the thaw, a remnant purple glow

Happy Days are here again

We’ll make America Great again

Society will be Great then

Happy days are here again

Everything starts perfect now

It’s stupid to go ask me how

Magic printed money now

Happy days are here again.