A Walker in the Suburbs

More than a week into Advent and I am finally slowing to the measured pace of this liturgical season. It is my favorite. A time of reflection, hope and anticipation.

Perhaps it is the carol “O come, o come Emmanuel,” its plaintive chant, and early memories of singing it in my parochial school hallway, the waxy smell of the Advent candles. But for some reason Advent always makes me think of old stones and heavy draperies, the silence of the cloister. Because it is less trumpeted than Christmas, Advent has kept its ancient, monastic overtones. It is as barren as the earth scoured clean by winter winds. It is a preparation for the celebrations to come.

Rain wasn’t the only thing that was falling yesterday. Leaves were twirling and swirling and landing lightly on hedges, yards and streets. They were mixing with the raindrops, they were dancing to the ground.

The reds, yellows and oranges that had so impressed me last week — in fact, I was marveling at how many trees seemed struck in mid-October rather than mid-November — were fading to brown and gray. Soon we will have monochrome. But before the color is all gone, a picture in its honor (photo by Suzanne).

A gunman shooting at Marine installations, explosive packages bound for the U.S., a local terrorist plotting to bomb the Metro system — all in all it hasn’t been an easy week to live in Washington, D.C. — or anywhere in this country, for that matter.

Which is why I’m glad it’s Halloween — the holiday that puts fear in its place. Of course, Halloween is mostly about getting dressed up and eating candy and watching scary movies. But at its root it’s about thumbing our noses at fear and death. It’s about looking the other way. It couldn’t be here at a better time.

I waited weeks for the leaves to change, and now they seem to have done it overnight. I drive home from Metro through tunnels of green and gold and that familiar acrid scent. Back home, I rush out with my camera to photograph the most beautiful trees in our neighborhood. The shimmering maples, the burning bush, and behind it all a wash of brilliant yellow from the turning oaks. We’re expecting wind and rain later this week and the leaves that are now on the trees will soon be on the ground. It is good to acknowledge the fleeting nature of beauty — and of cameras.

It’s the time of year when scarecrows lean on lampposts, monster spiders scuttle along rooftops and corn stalks cluster near hay bales. Halloween decorations have always seemed a little redundant in our house, though. Without even trying we have cobwebs in the corners, a squeak in the stairs and a haunted lamp in the living room. We usually put up other decorations too, witches, ghosts, even some fake cobwebs a few years ago. But those seemed rather silly. This year we may go “au natural.” We’ll let our house speak for us.

The woods are balding and purpled. Trees are thinning. I can see farther now into the thickets, which are no longer as thick. I bounce on the trampoline (Bouncer in the Suburbs? nah!), and when I’m tired I lie down on it and watch the leaves fall. So slowly, spiraling down, taking their time, an eternity of empty air beneath them. They fall singly or in pairs. Sometimes they are caught on an updraft, and then they soar. At this point, a falling leaf is still a novelty. I can observe it and think poetic thoughts about it. Soon leaves will fall so fast and in such number that I won’t have that luxury. I will be too busy to notice their progress through the sky. I will be raking.

We have no vivid reds and oranges here yet (maybe we won’t at all). What we do have is an autumn glow, a gradual shading of our leaves from green to lighter green to burnished copper. The trees are tired and thirsty. It’s been a rough summer for them; maybe they don’t have the energy for a full display.

We still have time for a fall worthy of New England. That’s what I always hope for. But if this is all we get, this polite curtsy of an autumn, this thinning and deepening of color, that will be fine, too.

Today, summer turns to fall. Today, we are poised between two seasons. While there is nothing extraordinary about this in terms of climate or meteorology — it happens twice a year — equilibrium is certainly rare in terms of human conduct. How often do you meet a perfectly balanced person, one who is neither too strong nor too weak, too bright nor too dim; who is enough of this world to make a life in it but not so much as to lose all common sense or perspective.

Such a person sounds too good to be true, too wise to be real. I suppose to be human means to be swept up from time to time in passion or folly, to vibrate between the poles rather than steadily plot a center course. The way of balance and equipoise may be what we strive for (at least some of us) but it is seldom what we achieve. And maybe that’s a good thing. Was it Mark Twain or Petronius who said, “Moderation in all things, including moderation.”