It has been raining for days. Red and yellow leaves that tumbled across the yard before, are now brown, soggy patches of sepia, like old pictures from my parents’ photo album.  Fall has given way to the long, grey days of winter in the West.

I have always looked forward to fall. In Wyoming fall meant a landscape of color rather than the white dots of flowers hiding near the brown sage in summer. Sun faded green leaves became gold and orange and yellow. Somehow the cold brisk night sky seemed clearer, and sound carried far. Leaves crunched and ice crackled. Crickets rubbed and chirped. Our radios picked up Denver and occasionally San Francisco on the skip.

Here in the Willamette Valley, fall-red and pink rhododendrons add to the already colored landscape, one more shade in the continuum of valley color. Rain is constant, the trees drip all the time which is much the same thing.

This year we’ve been unmindful of the season, making only brief remarks about leaves changing during our brief outings to the store or the doctor. It has been a difficult year, with sickness and friends passing, and we’ve drawn in upon ourselves for a while. I call it hunkering down. We’ve figuratively crawled under our desks and covered our heads, waiting for what’s next, hoping for the best, crossing our fingers. It’s not a good way to be, not very zen-like. It lacks quiet acknowledgement and observation and has too much “what if” and “how will this be,” with fret and worry a shade behind. Still, duck and cover is the natural reaction to stress and it is how we’ve lived this fall.

We’re dug in, living on pots of soup and fresh bread, slices of apple and pear midday, with crackers and cheese. Sometimes carrots and celery. TV is off most of the day. Music on the stereo instead. We read and write. Lydia does cross-stitch and I start puzzles that she finishes. Lydia keeps us clean and tidy. I putter around, bake, and cook. (We’ve put food ingredients and dishes on the middle shelves where I can get to them without help). We share dishes.

It is simple and easy. It is what it should be.

But still, we get ready for change. A bit at a time boxes are sorted through, old clothes donated. Hard decisions about books are made. We have so many. Much of the fiction I am willing to give up. I can always get another copy. The nonfiction is harder. I doubt that I will ever replace a collection of essays on Metaphor or a Latin dictionary. Once, they were a large part of who I was and what I did. Not so much anymore. Trimming down to the basics is self-imposed and ultimately it is all just stuff, the wrapper around the reality. Like removing a band-aid we go slowly, a bit at a time. Change happens in a quiet way if we are fortunate, and we are especially blessed if we are ready for it.

The holidays are coming. We’re exchanging gifts we both want, so no surprises. We’ll go to the symphony and drive around looking at house decorations. Keeping it simple. I could use a bit more silliness and joy right now but that will come ‘bye and bye’ as Uncle Remus would say.

Just now the sun is out, a thin, cold, stark winter light, brilliant for being unexpected. Down the middle of the street in a bright pink, quilted coat, a small girl peddles as fast as she can on an orange bike, with yellow training wheels to the end of the street. She does not look right or left. She is intent on her goal, unaware of anything else. She does not know how happy she should be.

Blessings

The Road