Thanksgiving’s late date has merchants worried. There is almost a full week less to shop this year than there was last!
But for those who aren’t eager for the Buying Season to begin, we have a welcome pause.
Time to catch the breath between one season and another. Time to work and write. Time to savor what we have before plunging into what we don’t. Talk about Thanksgiving!
Days grow short. Light grows scarce. It’s as good a time as any to add a lamp to a once-dark corner.
This arrangement won’t work when the kitchen table is fully occupied. But of course, it seldom is anymore.
With the lamp the table seems inhabited again. Warm, calm, illuminated and fully present. I’ve stopped being surprised by what light can do.
After several days that started as cold and hard as a stone, brittle light at morning, we begin today with soft fog and crow-call.
It reminds me of a Thomas Hardy poem:
This is the weather the cuckoo likes,
And so do I;
Although reading the poem more closely, I realize that today’s weather is what Hardy doesn’t like, as he says in his second stanza:
This is the weather the shepherd shuns,
And so do I;
When beeches drip in browns and duns,
And thresh and ply;
I’ve not been out in this weather yet, but for for atmospheric backdrop while sitting inside with a cup of tea, it can’t be beat.
A genetic study of ancient canine bones shows that dogs became domesticated in Europe anywhere from 18,800 to 32,100 years ago. Most likely this transition happened when wolves started hanging around humans in hopes of scoring leftovers from a mammoth (in both senses of the word) kill.
Why does this not surprise me?
Listening to a radio report of this study — and then reading about it in the morning newspaper — I’m struck once again by this point: that dogs are still the only large carnivore to be domesticated.
I think about Copper, so loving, so cute. Able to sit on his haunches and beg for food. Clever enough to know that if he sits there long enough he may get a treat.
The human-canine bond is a profound and mysterious one, but at times it is a fragile one. I’ve seen Copper snap when he feels cornered, challenged. I’ve seen the wolf inside him. But still I hug him, pet him, treat him increasingly more like a child.
It’s comforting to know that this has been going on for tens of thousands of years.
(Photo: Claire Cassidy Capehart)
The first cold of the season blew in yesterday. I’m not talking about frost on the pumpkin or a nip in the air. This cold meant business. Low 20s with the meteorologists already mentioning wind chill. There was even snow in the forecast for Tuesday.
I’m never ready for this, always find it an affront. What happened to balmy nights, crickets chirping, bats flitting high up, above the tree line? What happened to heat?
Truth be told, it may be with us again by next week! That’s the way our weather goes these days. But even if it warms up tomorrow, it’s too late now. The cold has happened. The gloves are on.
Cold weather is the other side of the moon. Every year a mystery; every year a drag.
(No snow yet, but it’s only a matter of time!)
I have a thing for hedges. Don’t know why. Maybe it’s the Anglophile in me dreaming of British hedgerows. Or maybe it’s the hospitality of hedges, the way they open themselves to sparrows and other small creatures.
Whatever the reason, I pay close attention to hedges, their colors and seasons. The hedge I pass each workday, the one I’ve written about in spring — the equipoise of pink and green as it buds — is now in brilliant autumn leaf.
I like to think the pink-red part of the spectrum has asserted itself at last. After wearing green all summer the hedge is finally letting its true colors show.
When it’s too dark to run I make my way slowly to the far edge of the backyard. I trudge through the leaves, hop on the trampoline and bounce.
Bouncing in the dark is more fun than it sounds. I can’t see the bushes that need trimming or the deck that needs power washing. I have music in my ears, a canzon by Gabrieli or a symphony by Mozart. I may be chilled at the start, but after a few minutes the cold no longer bothers me.
It’s a little bit like a sensory deprivation tank. Distractions are minimized; all that remains is the movement and the music.
The light may be fading, but bouncing makes it better.
From time to time a walker has to drive. To move from point A to point B when points A and B are hundreds of miles apart. To tote groceries or kids or large stringed instruments. To accommodate those who seldom stroll.
Walk enough, though, and it colors the drive, makes it less efficient. At a certain point the car becomes the body with wheels for legs.
That’s when a drive becomes a meditative amble. A time to think, daydream and while away the hours.
Recent events have once again brought to my attention the mind’s power over the body. This is not a new story — or even a novel idea for a post. After all, walking in the suburbs ( the activity, not the blog!) is as good for the mood as it is for the heart and lungs.
But seeing it in action, the undeniable power of this mind-body connection, fills me with wonder and gratitude.
We are a collection of chemicals, of muscle, bone and sinew. But we are also so much more.
The built world intrudes but can’t diminish. Sometimes, in fact, it frames and beautifies.
A sunrise ringed by palm fronds would be postcard pretty, but this one is lovely, too.
An ordinary morning, walking through the Metro parking garage, and this is what I see.