“Woodland Stream in a Winter Landscape” by John Henry Twachtman
I cannot tell you how the light comes. What I know is that it is more ancient than imagining. That it travels across an astounding expanse to reach us. That it loves searching out what is hidden what is lost what is forgotten or in peril or in pain. That it has a fondness for the body for finding its way toward flesh for tracing the edges of form for shining forth through the eye, the hand, the heart. I cannot tell you how the light comes, but that it does. That it will. That it works its way into the deepest dark that enfolds you, though it may seem long ages in coming or arrive in a shape you did not foresee. And so may we this day turn ourselves toward it. May we lift our faces to let it find us. May we bend our bodies to follow the arc it makes. May we open and open more and open still to the blessed light that comes. ~ Jan Richardson (How the Light Comes)
“Self-portrait. Between The Clock & The Bed” by Edvard Munch
The Clock strikes One That just struck Two — Some Schism in the Sum — A Sorcerer from Genesis Has wrecked the Pendulum — ~ Emily Dickinson (The Poems of Emily Dickinson, #1598)
Down in a green and crowded box A modest pansy grew Its stalk was bent it hung its head As if to hide from view. And yet, it was a lovely flower Its colors bright and fair, It might have graced a rosy bower Instead of hiding there.
Yet there it was, content to bloom Its modest tints arrayed, And there it spread its sweet perfume Within the silent shade. Then let me to the window go This pretty flower to see That I may also learn to grow In sweet humility.
~ Author Unknown
I found this poem back in August, written or copied by hand, on a slip of paper hidden between other papers in one of the family history boxes I was diligently sorting through. I don’t know if one of our ancestors wrote it or if they copied it down from some other source. Naturally, I thought it would make for a great post when pansy season came around.
Well, I was still pondering how different the seasons are down south here, after experiencing apple picking for Lammas Day instead of on the Autumn Equinox. I was in for another big surprise. It turns out pansies are considered cool season annuals in North Carolina, and they bloom from fall through spring! They are usually planted from late October through the month of November!
Then I remembered noticing last fall that the local nursery was selling pansies right alongside mums. Another memory surfaced, too, seeing pansies in flower boxes along the sidewalks back in January 2019, when we were down here visiting. It seemed like they were out so early, but they had probably been there since November.
These discoveries are leading to a paradigm shift in how the wheel of the year looks to me. So I decided to be a careful observer for a year or two, letting my old assumptions go and gradually finding a new way of thinking about (and celebrating!) the seasons.
Pansies for All Souls’ Day? In honor of an ancestor who loved and wrote down this poem? Why not? “Learning to grow in sweet humility…’
The inspiration of nature can help us deal with death and endings, gifting us with the courage to let go and the strength to carry on. The pain and uncertainty may be no easier to bear but the release of autumn asks that we trust in the process, bravely facing the growing darkness without ever knowing if the light will reappear. ~ Maria Ede-Weaving (The Essential Book of Druidry: Connect with the Spirit of Nature)
10.18.24 ~ Pritchard Park Chapel Hill, North Carolina
There’s hardly a spot of color on the hardwood trees in our yard, but the light is glorious, as it always is in October, and the signs of fall are unmistakable. ….. Always, when nature works as nature must, there are joys for every grief, a recompense for every sorrow. ….. Night falls earlier with each passing day now, but the recompense of shorter days is the glorious light of October. I wish you could see what happens to the magnificent colors of berry and bird and flower in the slanting light of October. ~ Margaret Renkl (The New York Times, October 14, 2024, “Growing Darkness, October Light: A Backyard Census”)
These pictures were taken on Friday morning, the day we stood in line at the Chapel Hill Public Library to vote. Afterwards we took a walk on the trails in the woods surrounding the library. North Carolina has early voting, something new to us. Before we left Connecticut we had voted in favor of bringing early voting to our old state. I wonder if it passed. Our habit was to get up early on election day and get to the polling place before it opened. We were always near first in line.
Something new for the citizens of NC is having to show a photo ID when they check in to vote. We always had to do that back in CT. It’s so interesting getting to know the different ways the governments of different states run things, something I never thought about before, having lived in only one state my whole life.
As I stood in line I reflected on how encouraging it was to learn that our 39th President, Jimmy Carter, made the effort to vote while in hospice care at the age of 100. He was the first president I ever voted for. My thoughts also returned to the sacrifice so many of our ancestors made for us in the Revolutionary War, so that we could have the right to vote today. As the granddaughter of Ukrainian immigrants on one side and the descendant of several Mayflower passengers on the other, my complex place in American history has always fascinated me. While appreciating the myriads of reasons Europeans have crossed the Atlantic over the centuries to make better lives for themselves here, I also feel deep regret for the harm they have caused to the original people who lived, and still live here.
When we moved down here I started looking for southern nature writers who might help me get acquainted with my new environment. I’ve become a big fan of Margaret Renkl, who lives in Tennessee at the same southern latitude as we do. Her lyrical writings resonate with the seasonal observations I’m experiencing here. I’ve read three of her books, checked out from the same beautiful library where we voted, and enjoy her occasional editorials in the New York Times.
I tried to capture some of the slanting light of October to match Renkl’s words. This is our second autumn down south and the way it is unfolding feels much more familiar now, it’s starting to feel more like home.
sculpure at Chapel Hill Public Library parking lot
October Skies Aster 10.8.24 ~ North Carolina Botanical Garden 36th Annual Sculpture in the Garden
For this year’s Walktober post I decided to walk through the outdoor sculpture exhibit at the botanical garden. I’ve been wary about returning to my favorite garden after enduring three episodes of seed tick bites after walks there this summer, but this time I sprayed permethrin on my shoes and pants, crossed my fingers, and hoped for the best.
part of “Elegant Dance” by Holly Felice
part of “Elegant Dance” by Holly Felice
There were 86 sculptures by 66 local artists to see and we found all of them. My favorites are included in this post. Enjoy!
“Guardian Frog” by Sue Estelle-Freeman
“Baba Yaga” by Jenny Marsh
“Ellie in the Flower Garden” by Helen Seebold
“Athena” by Tinka Jordy
“American Bullfrog” by Mac McCusker
“Emergence” by Sam Spiczka
“Lonesome George” by TJ Christiansen
“Tranquil Ocean” by Greg Goodall
“Urban Forager” by Anna Schroeder
“Kasike” by Nana Abreu
“Emerging Star-Nosed Mole” by Courtney Cappa
“Enchanted White Barn Owl” by Amy Jo Gelber
“Gift from the Ground” by Laura Harris For millennia, humankind has dug clay from the earth and used it to produce both functional and decorative ceramic pieces. This totem represents all aspects of that ageless process. The clay used was dug in North Carolina and fired in a raging ‘pit fire’ bonfire in Chatham County, NC. The colors are representative of the colors of North Carolina soil and the totem is a tribute to the ceramic heritage of our state. ~ Laura Harris
Black-eyed Susan
I voted for Urban Forager to win the People’s Choice Award. The winner will be announced after November 21. Something playful and endearing about a raccoon enjoying a fish sandwich!
At the Spring Equinox, nature is stretching awake and we, too, surface from our winter stillness, driven on by the growing light and warmth of the sun. Alban Eilir is the dawn of the year. It brings with it a sense of hope and the fresh possibilities of a new day. We see everywhere the vibrant spirit of the Earth, whose irrepressible life bursts forth in the opening of buds, the surfacing of shoots, and the golden blossoming of primrose, daffodil, broom and forsythia. All life must rise up from the dark soil and break out of the safety of womb and egg. ~ Maria Ede-Weaving (The Essential Book of Druidry: Connect with the Spirit of Nature)
Although winter is still with us, we sense the subtle renewing of life at the edge of our senses, visible in the growing light and the first greening shoots. Like a seed germinating in the dark soil, we, too, feel the bright spark of life that burns within us. Its call will soon drive us from the warmth and safety of the dark to the ever-quickening call of the light. For now, we must sit at Brigid’s hearth, dreaming and drawing nourishment and comfort from it until the lighter, warmer days. At Imbolc we honour those dreams and the inner fire that will create the world anew — we, too, shall soon become the spring. ~ Maria Ede-Weaving (The Essential Book of Druidry: Connect with the Spirit of Nature)
