If Still Your Orchards Bear

As one who appreciates nature in all its many forms and moods, walking is one of my greatest joys . Some mornings and almost every evening finds me walking in my quiet neighborhood in Beaverton, Oregon, almost always accompanied by our family dog, Taffeta. Sometimes my wife, Joyce, walks with us.

Since the terrorist attacks on September 11, 2001, I have found these walks extremely soothing to my spirit. Some of the lushness of summer still remains. It is still hot here in northern Oregon during the day and every now and then I see a few late blackberries still on the vine. Nights are often chilly now with the temperatures falling into the 50's, a precursor of the cold, wet weather to come in late Autumn and winter.

Yet, to walk with September is to walk with a world in passing. The crickets sound louder and louder every evening, and I still hear the bass notes of a few tree frogs in the background. When the wind comes up in late evening, rustling the leaves and playing like a stringed instrument in my ears, the sounds of the changing Earth draw me into my inner self, and I feel so much at one with all creation. For me this feeling is my "brush of angel wings."

Our world, I mean the world of politics and business and war seems to be suddenly changing gears in a way that is unprecedented in my life since Vietnam. Yet, so slow moves September in my mind. I have just noticed the sprinkling of pale yellows in the line of birches along the edge of the neighborhood park. When did the leaves start changing? I ask myself that question every year.

September is subtle. Every now and then I come across a little whirl of gossamer-winged insects, ethereal as silken threads in the cloud-bright light. The other world is not so subtle. The air is filled with talk of the crusading armies and finding "infinite justice" and the inevitability of "collateral damage."

To walk with September is to pause for a while in the endless cycle of the seasons, at the bottom of the returning breath of Nature, just before the spectacular dying in October and the wintry death to come. In September's other world there is no rest, no gently flowing denouement to Nature's time of rest under the snows of winter. There is grief and sorrow everywhere but also some unquestioning self-righteous indignation, and the quite sincere promise from leaders everywhere of untold suffering, dying and death to come.

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