The following article was written in 2015. Recently, when I chanced upon it, I realised that at the time of writing, little did I know that it was going to be my last fling with 'Fall', in many years to come. Reading it after almost four years, it brought back beautiful memories, of umpteen drives, and walks, and of hot apple cider flavored with cinnamon. Hope you would enjoy reading it, as much as I have enjoyed living it.
'Happy endings happen only in fairy tales', time and again, the incorrigible cynic in me, is given to lean on such time-worn clichés. Yet, every fall my faith in this euphemism is vitiated as I am drawn out of my little pessimistic circle to partake in this
grand finale: a farewell at its best. The end of a journey and the
beginning of another; a pageantry of colors, we mortals like to
call `fall’, when in fact, the whole of Nature is rising to the
occasion. Death descends upon us not only with its meditative
serenity, but also with all its fury and passion: so life could
continue…
Fall is that sacrificial fire from the ashes of which, Phoenix rises… it is the time to contemplate, to go for walks, to glean the warmth of a receding sun, to press colorful leaves in the dictionary (or as an expert once confided in me, telephone directories are better)...time also to catch the last lingering notes of the songbirds as sure enough, soon they would take wings, looking for greener pastures, newer melodies. Mockingbird’s daily travesty would slowly fade away as the naked trees bring it into plain sight, cardinal’s belligerent jingles give way to more poetic, melancholic harmonies, and blue jay’s bizarre reprimandings too subside. And Eastern bluebird? I don’t even know what it sounds like. This spring, it was the first time ever, that I chanced upon a pair, and even managed to trace its nesting site. But, I, yet have to hear one sing…or scold…or say something.
Ravens, hawks and crows are seen perched on high branches of poplars and elms, aloof as usual, penetrating with their keen posture the blueness of the autumn skies.
Squirrels, on the other hand, are hard at work: running around, gathering acorns, digging up the earth, hiding them, to guarantee that their hunger is well-satisfied during the long winter days. There is also the task of reinforcing their shabby-looking nests and ensure that they are properly insulated and cozy. Field mice are busy too. In fact, just a few days ago, I found a bag of puffed sorghum, bitten into and raided from my own kitchen: I am confident that the culprits are field mice. Roguish, thieving, miserable little creatures! I haven’t yet been able to detect their entry passage or their exit strategy. But, they always leave some clue behind, just to hammer into my puny self that `the break-in was successful’. Yet, at some level, I can’t help but sympathize with them. This year alone some five majestic trees were chopped and hewn with power-saws and hydrowedges, from our apartment complex and thousands of critters were thus rendered homeless overnight. Of course, this never made the headlines. And, if it weren’t enough, these mighty oaks, elderberries, and elms were thrown into shredders, with great efficiency, and reduced to a coarse powder we like to call `saw-dust’ by high-power grinders. Ironically, in today’s polished corporate lingo, they label this `a zero waste environment’ for the sawdust would be turned into designer furniture for homes or given away to aggrieved artists who would diligently use it to re-create the impression of a tree and display it in museums and galleries. All this happened before the fall: before the trees could once again burst into colors, once again, express their recondite turmoils, frustrations and aspirations… before each leaf could indulge itself in the fun task of going and looking for the mysterious co-ordinates, upon which it was ordained to fall.
Fall is that sacrificial fire from the ashes of which, Phoenix rises… it is the time to contemplate, to go for walks, to glean the warmth of a receding sun, to press colorful leaves in the dictionary (or as an expert once confided in me, telephone directories are better)...time also to catch the last lingering notes of the songbirds as sure enough, soon they would take wings, looking for greener pastures, newer melodies. Mockingbird’s daily travesty would slowly fade away as the naked trees bring it into plain sight, cardinal’s belligerent jingles give way to more poetic, melancholic harmonies, and blue jay’s bizarre reprimandings too subside. And Eastern bluebird? I don’t even know what it sounds like. This spring, it was the first time ever, that I chanced upon a pair, and even managed to trace its nesting site. But, I, yet have to hear one sing…or scold…or say something.
Ravens, hawks and crows are seen perched on high branches of poplars and elms, aloof as usual, penetrating with their keen posture the blueness of the autumn skies.
Squirrels, on the other hand, are hard at work: running around, gathering acorns, digging up the earth, hiding them, to guarantee that their hunger is well-satisfied during the long winter days. There is also the task of reinforcing their shabby-looking nests and ensure that they are properly insulated and cozy. Field mice are busy too. In fact, just a few days ago, I found a bag of puffed sorghum, bitten into and raided from my own kitchen: I am confident that the culprits are field mice. Roguish, thieving, miserable little creatures! I haven’t yet been able to detect their entry passage or their exit strategy. But, they always leave some clue behind, just to hammer into my puny self that `the break-in was successful’. Yet, at some level, I can’t help but sympathize with them. This year alone some five majestic trees were chopped and hewn with power-saws and hydrowedges, from our apartment complex and thousands of critters were thus rendered homeless overnight. Of course, this never made the headlines. And, if it weren’t enough, these mighty oaks, elderberries, and elms were thrown into shredders, with great efficiency, and reduced to a coarse powder we like to call `saw-dust’ by high-power grinders. Ironically, in today’s polished corporate lingo, they label this `a zero waste environment’ for the sawdust would be turned into designer furniture for homes or given away to aggrieved artists who would diligently use it to re-create the impression of a tree and display it in museums and galleries. All this happened before the fall: before the trees could once again burst into colors, once again, express their recondite turmoils, frustrations and aspirations… before each leaf could indulge itself in the fun task of going and looking for the mysterious co-ordinates, upon which it was ordained to fall.
Despite
all the hewing and chopping and raiding, I cannot help but bask in
the glory of this season. Even though for some, it is a depressing
period of the year since it harbingers the beginning of yet another
winter, for me, it is a blessing bestowed upon us... an indulgence
we can all afford.
Beautiful read, thank you Seema for sharing this.
ReplyDeleteBeautiful! Love the similes and poeticness.
ReplyDelete