Autumn ambivalence

As I am with many things, also too am I conflicted about autumn.

Should I lament its brevity or rejoice in its beauty? Must I cling to the passing season or welcome the ritual of death that it renews?

Tonight I was reminded of autumn's beauty and impermanence during a vigorous sojourn among the sycamores and sugar maples, during an 80-minute walk down the canal feeder trail among the white oak and weeds.

The walking path rests above the Miami River waterway that once served canal boats decades ago as man and beast moved goods from Sidney and other points to the Miami-Erie Canal.

The rustling of the breeze and intermittent calls of birds joined the seasonal symphony, as my feet shuffled through the crunchy carpet that was once the canopy.  

The only other sound was the distant whine of wheels and motors, a fitting  juxtaposition with the canal trough below, the modern connected to the eternal.

Seeing autumn unfold is like saying goodbye to friends.

I don't know why some maples and oaks and poplar and paw paws still retain their armaments, while others willingly have ceded their cover, accepting winters' fate.

Stubborn trees aside, the empty multitude let in an array of light, but not enough to soak up the morning dampness that will hasten the leaves' decay, a crucial step in the forests' regeneration.

The morning light plays visual tricks, revealing everything so that nothing stands out. But the evening tone mutes the muddy background, magnifying the beauty of the turning trees. 

In darkness, beauty builds, no spotlight required.

At one point, I deemed it necessary to leave the asphalt ribbon and connect with the dirt, traipsing a trail carved into the earth.

To do so, I had to outwit a jealous branch of thorns guarding the path below a golden ceiling. My first reward was being allowed to traverse a dry gully funneling nothing but air toward the river below. 

At waters' edge, I paused to enjoy the languid stream succumbing to gravity, flowing south toward the Ohio River.

The world may move fast but time on earth moves slow.

Back on the natural scar, every so often a tree had been felled, a barrier reminding me to slow down but still keep going forward.

Where the water widened, a side trail connects to a sandbar, which begged to be bothered. While standing there calmly, I saw a deer grazing in the island of grasses and reeds. 

Sight betrays distance -- is that 50, 60, 70 yards away? I can't tell, but I am far enough away for my feet to rake across the rocks for a few steps without alerting the animal.

Then I paused, standing quietly for a few minutes before the deer finally caught the scent of an interloper. At that point, the deer surveyed its safety and decided to bound into the underbrush on the other side of the water.

And I made my return to the natural path before climbing up the hillside to begin my trip back to the trail's beginning.

There were some experiences to be appreciated in both directions. 

Twice I heard the flump-whomp-plunk of a walnut making its Newtonian plummet, bouncing off branches and whirring through leaves before splashing into the rivers' flow, the ripples accelerating upon impact before dissolving as quickly as they came.

As I was about to leave, the roar of a nearby freight train racing over the bridge signaled that life keeps moving on, here and elsewhere.

You woke up this morning? Good -- that means it is time to rewrite your obituary

Right now, if either of us died, our obituary would probably include the standard things that everyone else’s would have – who our family is, the towns that shaped us growing up and where we made our way in the world. It might include some of the charitable things we have done or the awards we have won, perhaps even some of our greatest failures and regrets.

But, if either of us were to die today, the obituary would be written, with no chance for modification, no chance to alter the facts contained therein. Like the stone atop a grave, our obituary would be the record of the brief blip of our lives on this mortal coil.


So, today, I am going to work to rewrite my obituary.
Tomorrow, I am going to shape my future in ways I never thought possible.
Each and every day I wake up to another sunrise is the chance to rewrite my obituary.


Today, I start working toward the goal of walking the Grand Canyon and the Appalachian Trail by my 45th birthday.
Tomorrow, I will work on the book whose idea has germinated for more than a decade.

And both days, perhaps, I will keep my heart open to the possibility of something more in my life besides an empty house at the end of the day.
 And the day after that, all three wishes! And the next, and the next, and the next.


For each day that I am given is special,  and each another chance to change the contents of that final word on the life that I have lived.

Today, I begin rewriting my obituary. How about you?