I have been seduced by the phenology of quaking aspens. In the winter, they stand softly, white bark against white snow. Their eyes, stark black rings, watch silently as the only witness to a seemingly abandoned forest. In the spring, they celebrate with soft green leaves that unfurl from their holdings like hands worshiping the sun. In the summer, they are benevolent while moose munch on their nurturing leaves, and patient while their roots ache for water in the dry season. In the fall, right now, they celebrate along with myself the chilling of the air by painting the hills with a wash of reds, oranges, yellows, and every shade in between. Everything glows a golden color, and many folks begin to prematurely mourn the time when the leaves will quake for the last time and fall in slow motion with the grace of Gymnopédie No. 1. The beauty of winter just around the corner is momentarily forgotten, hence the endless cyclical dance continues.
The first step out my door in October is like waking up for a second time. My eyes open a little wider as the cold air brings the blood rushing to the surface of my skin. The stillness is something I’ve decided that I can’t ever give up. In a world of ticking clocks and led lights, those moments that refuse to be defined by anything are the ones that make my heart squeeze in the way that it loves. Bliss is in these moments. Moments that are absolutely everywhere yet nowhere. Where and when they are is completely dependent on our own abilities to allow them to be seen.
A squirrel collects pine nuts with great zeal, and I am jealous of the task. It is a task I do not have to do, but would like to take part in. Spending so much time with a pine cone and to be rewarded with a morsel of sustenance seems far more rewarding than twisting off a tie on a plastic bag of bread that was made hundreds of miles away and shaped with metal hands rather than living ones. I am thankful for my avocado toast, but that doesn’t stop me from romanticizing the culinary pursuits of the neighborhood rodent. Autumn is a time when connection to what’s on the fork seems so much more important. A permeating need for meaning and purpose.
Bull moose exhale angry air through flaring nostrils at hikers. Black bears ignore passersby as berries captivate their attention. Bull elk extend their necks and raise their heads, proudly displaying their impressive racks to the lady cow elk. Men in faded camo slowly roll by in their muddy pickup trucks, eyes locked on the impressive elk, but for reasons different than mine. As I drive through town I see the points of these proud animals sticking up in truck beds. The animal behind the wheel looks weak and ugly when so close to the strong and beautiful slain beast being hauled behind them. The exchange of lives seems viscerally unequal in this moment. Living in the west, I reluctantly found an understanding for the trigger finger that takes the life of these creatures, but that doesn’t stop my eyes from seeing how the destruction of beauty makes the destructor uglier, regardless of intention or purpose. I wonder if the reason why women are often considered the more beautiful sex is because they have the ability to give and create life, while historically/steryotypically through war and hunting, men take it. However, what about when hunters give life to their children when putting meat on the table, or soldiers kill men overseas because they believe they are saving an entire country back at home?
Autumn is a season of life, and death. All things that thrive must eventually wilt and die. Sometimes this death is beautiful, other times it is heartbreaking - But it will happen in a reliable cyclical cycle, until perhaps one day it doesn’t. That is the day when we as humans know that we have gone too far. Hopefully that day will never come, and that I can continue to be mesmerized by the quaking aspen that eases the transition between every season, and even every day.
