Pumpkin Soup

I’ve been down this road before, but this year has been like none other. Still, we did our best to keep to some of our traditions, bringing home pumpkins from a local farm and placing them on the front porch to mark the fall harvest.

They lasted through Thanksgiving. When we saw one beginning to deteriorate, I moved it into the woods for our wildlife neighbors. The other pumpkin was holding its own, and my wife brought it inside and made a wonderful soup with many different seasonings.

Sometimes I find myself looking for underlying connectors between myself and the natural world. As I finish the last of the pumpkin soup, I’m aware of those occasional moments of clarity when, as John Prine sang in his last recorded song, “I remember everything.”

Every tree and every blade of grass are committed to my memory, every joy and every sadness. The joys and sadness, it seems to me, tie us together in our humanness. Even a perfect storm of pandemic and politics run amuck could never change that.

My experience is not unique. I remember first kisses, sledding on a moonlit night with my young son, the generosity of strangers, the mystery of snow-capped mountains in the distance, and the eternal sound of breakers crashing on the shore. Happily, the joys outweigh the sadness.

The connectors, it turns out, are everywhere to be found when I see with my heart, taking care not to “let my past go sneaking up on me.” In my mind’s eye, I remember every tree, every single blade of grass, and every soup my brown-eyed girl has made for me.

Blameless

Morning light seeps into the woods behind our house.

Woods that were home to indigenous peoples long before

our history was writ large, superimposed on the land

and the people who lived here. It is my home, now.

And while I struggle with the brutal legacy of Manifest Destiny,

which our European ancestors used to justify genocide,

I am blameless. Instead, I see subtle colors teased from

each tree and plant by early morning light. When day is done,

a different mood descends on these woods. A quiet,

peaceful transition from day to night unfolds. The sounds of

geese and other creatures who make these woods their home

pierce the silence. Their sounds, and the distinctive quality

of fading light, soothe me. Still, there is a vague discomfort,

as if I am an interloper, albeit a blameless one.

November Rose

Finally, it was cold and there were scattered pockets of first frost. As I made my way along the Delaware River in the early morning, a dense fog hung over the swift-moving current and mystical elements of the natural world gradually revealed themselves.

A lone duck stayed close to shore near the place where the Aquetong Creek flows into the Delaware. Several miles upstream, where the creek springs forth from its subterranean source, there is a profound spiritual connection; the Aquetong Spring was sacred to the Leni Lenape Indians.   

I am drawn to the Delaware River in a way I cannot fully explain. That morning, as the fog began to lift, the river whispered to me: Everything you need is within you.

In such moments of clarity, I believe it is possible to connect with the Divine that is around and within us. Ernest Hemingway observed of nature, “It is what we have instead of religion.”

As the fog began to lift, I saw her standing defiant in the face of the coming winter: November rose, a reminder of nature’s eternal resilience. Spring will come again to the Delaware River Valley. There will be rebirth and renewal.

For now, the edge of winter approaches and the days grow shorter. But we need not “rage against the dying of the light.” Each season offers an opportunity to connect with our divine selves.

And so, I mark my time not in years but in the passing of the seasons, each with its own song, its own message. Evidence of the Divine and a brief, tantalizing glimpse of eternity. November rose.

Jake

Tonight, at sunset, Barb and I spread Jake’s ashes in a nearby field where he used to run. One year ago, today, our boy made his way to the Rainbow Bridge where, it is said, he will wait for us. As we scattered Jake’s remains in the wind, all of the feelings and emotion I’d been holding in these last 12 months poured out.

The truth is, before Jake, I hadn’t been much of a dog person. It had taken no small amount of coaxing by my wife to persuade me we should have a dog in our lives. Now, I can’t imagine how I got along without him. I am forever grateful to Barb for bringing this gentle, lovable and goofy dog, who became my friend and teacher, into my life.

I cherish the memory of Jake not so much for what he taught me, but for how he made me feel – unconditionally loved. He constantly reminded me that in the grand scheme of things, fortune and fame are of little importance and that what matters is how we make each other feel.

At times when my mind would fill with racing thoughts, his quiet presence spoke volumes about being centered and stilling the mind. He cared not a whit about yesterday and even less about tomorrow. It was all about being fully present in the moment.

One of his greatest joys, aside from chomping on pizza crust, was chasing rabbits. He ran after them at a frenzied gallop with his ears flying in the wind. The fact that in 12 years he never caught one mattered not. It was the thrill of the chase that sparked him; it was the journey and not the destination.

Jake also reinforced something I have always known but sometimes forget. Nature is our greatest source of healing and happiness. He loved the outdoors and delighted in traversing woods and fields. Jake taught me about the nature of unconditional loyalty. He was by my side through thick and thin, in times of joy and times of sadness. He was always eager to share my joy and never failed to lean into me and comfort me in times of duress.

I will forever remember how Jake made me feel. His was pure love. Maybe there is a Rainbow Bridge and Jake will be waiting for me. One thing I know for sure is that I am a far better person for having had Jake in my life. He was a dear friend and an uncommon teacher.

Who Knows Why?

A stranger came to my door today and didn’t make a sound.

At least, I didn’t hear him. When I finally took notice, it was too late.

His small frame had already begun to stiffen.

A fly buzzed near as if it knew. There wasn’t a mark on him,

not a feather appeared broken or damaged.

Yesterday he may have been one of those lovely creatures

soaring overhead with purpose, braving wind, heat and rain

and all manner of danger on the ground.

Today, for whatever reason, he had taken his last flight,

which ended on my doorstep. A small thing, some might say.

Who will even know he is gone? But I know, and I honor his passing,

small, beautiful, sentient being who chose my doorstep for who knows why?

On the River

In the early morning three small boats lay anchored in the shadow of the New Hope-Lambertville Bridge. Shad are migrating upriver from their saltwater habitat to spawn, and in a few weeks Lambertville will hold its annual Shad Festival.

In the distance the plaintiff voice of a coxswain can be heard calling out instructions to rowers in their scull. As they reach my vantage point, I clearly see their paddles moving in and out of the water in unison. They are the essence of teamwork; there are no stars on a crew team.

For its part, the river doesn’t think about where it’s going – it just flows. Its movement and purpose are organic. It doesn’t struggle against itself, as we humans are prone to doing. Maybe that is one of the things that saps our energy and our vision. Instead, we ought to become partners with the river and with life, feeling the energy and grace, no longer struggling against ourselves.

I remember being on this river years ago, some miles north of here in the mountains, with my son Chris. It was during the tumultuous teenage years when we always seemed to be at odds. I thought canoeing together would give us a chance to share time and the river with each other, feel the river’s quiet strength and, while it didn’t think about it at the time, stop struggling against ourselves.

There is a point where the Delaware flows through the Water Gap. The mountains rise sharply from the banks on both sides of the river. It is a place of primordial majesty and peace, my son and I and the kestrels soaring overhead the only interlopers.

As we entered the Gap, Chris took his paddle out of the water, turned and said, “Stop paddling Dad.” I lifted my paddle from the water and for several minutes we let the river carry us where it may.

That day, nature in her infinite grace held my son and I in the palm of her hand. For several minutes, all of the turmoil and contention that existed between us dissipated in the mountain air. Chris and I had given ourselves over to the river. We were one with it, and the peace that enfolded us was a blessing put in motion by a simple action – removing our paddles from the water.

Years later I realized that all of the contention and turmoil notwithstanding, my son had displayed wisdom and a sense of the Universe. He knew intuitively that there was a moment when we could give ourselves over to the river, become one with it, and experience the Divine. I’m glad I listened when he said, “Stop paddling Dad.”