November

trailing arbutus

Arthur Haines Go Botany

As I said, November is the month of the axe, and, as in other love affairs, there is skill in the exercise of bias...

I find it disconcerting to analyze, ex post facto, the reasons behind my own axe-in-hand decisions. I find, first of all, that not all trees are created free and equal. Where a white pine and a red birch are crowding each other, I have a priori bias; I always cut the birch to favor the pine. Why?

...So I try again and here perhaps is something, under this pine will ultimately grow a trailing arbutus, an Indian pipe, a pyrola, or a twin flower, whereas under the birch a bottle gentian is about the best to be hoped for. In this pine a pileated woodpecker will ultimately chisel out a nest; in the birch a hairy will have to suffice. In this pine the wind will sing for me in April, at which time the birch is only rattling naked twigs. These possible reasons for my bias carry weight, but why? Does the pine stimulate my imagination and my hopes more deeply than the birch does? If so, is the difference in the trees, or in me?

November

A Sand County Almanac

Aldo Leopold

blazing

Fifteen degrees this morning, stars blazing outside. Wool caps have come out of the bureau. Christmas wreaths on sale at supermarkets. Allyn brought home a couple of poinsettias yesterday.

That which cannot change, remains. The great peace, the deep silence, the hidden beauty of reality remain.While it cannot be conveyed through words, it is waiting for you to experience for yourself.
Nisargadatta Mahaaraj
Zen page-a-day calendar

tamaracks

I must not drive much through tamarack country these days as I haven't seen any turning until we drove the NY thruway to Buffalo for Thanksgiving. They are one of the last to turn, maybe the willows are the last. The asparagus plants in the back provide a miniature version in color and shape.

Gratitude

November is the gloomiest month of the year in Vermont; dark, cold, wet. It contrasts so nicely during Thanksgiving when cozy homes are full of warmth, family, light, lunacy, and love.

Happy Thanksgiving!

At times our own light goes out, and is rekindled by a spark from another person.

Each of us has cause to think with deep gratitude of those who have lighted the flame within us.

Albert Schweitzer

gunmetal blue

Snow on the mountains. Clank of a radiator at morning sitting. Saw a woman shoveling a shrunken jack-o-lantern off her front walk yesterday (me, too). Green Mountains transformed to gunmetal blue.

The moon shining full.
Smoke drifting away
over water.
Ranetsu
Zen page-a-day calendar

shopping

Windy and cold. Did the grocery shopping on Saturday. Parking lot was packed. Cranberries in abundance. Cans of cream of mushroom soup stacked on corners. Hood's Golden Egg Nog is now available. Wish I could get some to you, Pip! Stopped by the winter farmer's market, not that I needed anything there. It was packed as well. For some reason, the winter farmer's market is a comforting place to visit. It's so full of life.

It's not autumn's cold that keeps me awake,
but what I feel before the grasses and trees in my courtyard.
My banana tree has lost its leaves;
my parasol tree is old;
and night after night, the sound of wind,
the sound of rain.

Chujo Joshin
Zen page-a-day calendar

bonus

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=swUlDc3v3DE

blackbird

from somewhere on flickr

Large flocks of blackbirds when I was out in the woods putting up No Hunting signs last week. I couldn't see them, but could hear them. This entry first appeared on this blog on 11/6/09.

Cloudy. At this time of year you see large flocks of blackbirds gathering (or starlings or grackles), hundreds of them. The size of the flocks is a little unsettling, like nature is out of balance. I have seen these flocks descend on the trees in the back woods. It is almost like a plague of locusts. I was reading about them in my Peterson's Field Guide, and it said, "Their song sounds like the creak of a rusty door hinge, penetrating."
The other day I went into a convenience store in Brandon, and there was a large flock screeching from the trees across the road. When I came out, one of the blackbirds was in the parking lot picking at crumbs of bread. Its feathery coat was a lustrous jet black from its beak to its tail. It glistened in the sun as it moved about. It was so sleek and aerodynamic. It was beautiful.
This is a lesson I keep have to relearn. Just because something is common doesn't mean it isn't beautiful. Ragweed, blackbirds, snowflakes can, at once, be ordinary...and miraculous. Many years ago I found a young starling which had dental floss hopelessly wrapped around and cutting into its leg. I ended up taking it to the Rutland Veterinary Clinic. My neighbor, Louella Day, a native Vermonter, was on duty. She took a look at it and said, "Well, it's just a starling, but let's see if we can take care of it." And she did. She had the right idea.

You were only waiting for this moment to arise
You were only waiting for this moment to arise
You were only waiting for this moment to arise.
Paul McCartney

stick season

Believe it or not, there are still some trees that are turning, and they will be chronicled at a later date, but, for the most part, the fall foliage season is over. The season between the turning of the leaves and the arrival of snow is known at "stick season." There is a stark beauty and clarity that describes this time of year. There is kind of an opening up of forests and fields as the leaves come down, and the corn is turned to silage. Birds such as the blue jays are much more noticeable. They've always been there during the summer months, but there have been so many other birds to notice that they sort of get lost.

Among the corn stalks
wind rippling
just for the corn.

Soen Nakagawa
Zen page-a-day calendar

silver

This time of year the water in lakes, ponds and streams takes on a metallic quality, like molten silver. Does that have something to do with the fading light, the browns and grays of the mountains? I don't know. When the snow arrives, water often looks profoundly black, like the eye of a shark.

The earth and heaven utter no word, but
they ceaselessly repeat
the holy book unwritten.

Kaiten Nukariya
Zen page-a-day calendar

snow

I was outside working yesterday when it started to snow very lightly. Drove home from Shelburne through this very light snow. It decorated the trees and bushes along the roadside with white highlights, like powdered sugar. It was beautiful, the first snowfall always is.
I ran into one of my neighbors at the supermarket. He was genuinely crestfallen about the start of the long, cold winter season. I tried to tell him how beautiful it was, how even in March when we're all sick of winter, it is still beautiful. He wasn't convinced.

There are only two ways to live your life. One is as though nothing is a miracle. The other is as though everything is a miracle.
Albert Einstein

woods

Tomorrow is the firs day of rifle season. Out in the woods yesterday putting up No Hunting signs. It's beautiful out there.

It's beautiful out in the woods.

I can feel this heart inside me, and I conclude it exists. I can touch this world, and I also conclude it exists. All my knowledge ends at this point. The rest is hypothesis.

Albert Camus

Zen page-a-day calendar

attic

It's amazing how much the changes in the seasons is reflected in the activity in our attic. Patio furniture goes up in the attic, wood rack and wood stove equipment comes down. Summer clothes go up in the attic, winter clothes come down. Smell of wood smoke.

stars

Up very early this morning, couldn't sleep. Looked out the window, and it was clear, the stars were out. Took a walk in the morning chill. Sirius chasing the waning moon and the constellation Orion across the heavens. The planet Venus blazing in the east over the Green Mountains.

If you despair the shortening of the days and the long nights, take up astronomy. There are miracles to be seen out there, with a telescope or without.

There is no reality in the absence of observation.

The Copenhagen Interpretation of Quantum Mechanics

Zen page-a-day calendar

over the moon

About a week ago, the farmers came to take the cows home for the winter. We had nine cows this year. Seven went in a docile and cooperative way. Two cows decided they didn't want to go, and ran away. One of the cows is accurately named Double Trouble. The other one is apparently related to the cow that jumped over the moon. The existing fencing wasn't tall enough to hold him.
The grass has been getting sparse for weeks now, and the water hose was getting clogged up with leaves. It was time for them to go home. On Saturday the cows were seen by the guy who taps our maple trees up in the high pasture. They're definitely not supposed to be up there. There was plenty of grass, however, and apples to boot. He closed one of the gates to keep them from heading into the woods from there. I went up there on Sunday to see if I could get them to come down. They were nowhere to be seen. I opened the gate that had been closed the day before in case they had somehow found their way into the woods, and were trying to get back into the pasture.
I didn't sleep well that night imagining that they might end up in the road and cause a serious automobile accident, or get into a neighbor's garden or some such thing. On Sunday the farmers came back to try to round them up. He found them in a nearby pasture. He offered them some grain, and they slowly came down the mountain. They had purchased some taller fencing, and were able to coax them into a makeshift corral. Once they were enclosed, and realized that the game was up, they quietly went into the trailer for the ride home.
As they were heading out the lane, I heaved a sigh of relief. I realized how much they are on my mind over the summer season. I count them every time they go by in the back to make sure they're all accounted for. I check the water periodically to make sure they don't die of thirst. I worry about them. I realized that at the same time I'm also concerned for the welfare of the bluebirds that have nested in the back for years now. I hope they don't tangle with the sparrows or get eaten by raccoons.
At first I thought it was a sign of the summer season, the concern for animals, but realized it's ongoing. The deer hunting season starts on Saturday. It's the worst time of the year as far as I'm concerned. I've been putting up No Hunting signs as I do every year. In the spring I worry about a late frost, and how that could damage the apple harvest, and how a bad year could cause havoc with the deer herd. I worry about heavy snows and coyotes.
What I realized is when you have land you have animals. They are an intimate part of your neighborhood, and it's a two edged sword, at least for me. I love having them around, but I worry about them as well.

bronze

The season of the scarlet maple leaves is over for another year. Gone with the wind. Phase two of the foliage season has started. Taking center stage are the beech and oak trees. The beeches favor burnt orange. The oaks are more like bronze, the color of an indian head penny.

clouds of milkweed

Rows and flows of angel hair

And ice cream castles in the air

And feathered canyons everywhere

I've looked at clouds that way.

But now they only block the sun

They rain and snow on everyone

So many things I would have done

But clouds got in my way

I've looked at clouds from both sides now

From up and down and still somehow

It's clouds illusions I recall

I really don't know clouds at all

Both Sides Now

Joni Mitchell

the leaves were flying

It's been very windy this week. The following first appeared in this blog 11/18/11.

Clear and cold. Two weeks ago on Sunday, I got home from the Zen Center in the afternoon. Allyn was a couple of hours behind me, returning from visiting her mother in Ohio. I wanted to finish cleaning up the mess from the various wood piles I had created in the back yard before she returned. I hauled bark and chips from the back to the burn pile we have in a field nearby. As I was returning from the burn pile, I saw two oak leaves high in the sky down by the bridge. They must have been 100 feet in the air. I couldn't feel any breeze, it must have been above the tree line. But they came toward me, slowly fluttering in the air. They would start to head down, but would catch a thermal again, and rise up to the original level. One finally headed to earth along the road, but the other kept coming, fluttering, falling, rising, dancing on the wind. I had watched as I was hauling the wheelbarrow back, but the leaf had been in the air a long time, a number of minutes at least; longer than any leaf I had ever seen before. I finally put down the wheelbarrow, and gave the leaf my full attention. It kept coming, floating above the road, over the back yard and the house, over the front yard, and finally over my head heading east. I parted ways with the zephyr along the fence line, and slowly fell to the earth, landing in Allyn's flower garden near the old apple tree. As my eyes finally parted from the oak leaf, I look up and saw the waxing moon, like mother of pearl, rising over the Green Mountains.

Soon the child's clear eye is clouded over by ideas and opinions, preconceptions and abstractions. Simple free being becomes encrusted with the burdensome armor of the ego. Not until years later does an instinct come that a vital sense of mystery has been withdrawn. The sun glints through the pines, and the heart is pierced in a moment of beauty and strange pain, like a memory of paradise. After that day...we become seekers.
Peter Matthiessen