The abundance of metaphors just begging for use makes choosing one (or two or three or five) confounding. Like trying to capture fire with my fingers.
Pandemic autumn. Made your brain hurt too, right?
I've witnessed two separate & distinct peak autumn seasons most every year of my adult life. It's been a blessing and a privilege.
The first always came during late September/early October on Superior's northwoods. From those, I drew perennial vision and strength.
A month or so later, fall chased south and caught up with me on the prairie. That gave the boot to mystic reverie by reminding me what time it was.
This year I skipped the northwoods pilgrimage and weeks of miserable foul weather ate peak autumn down here. Stinkin' 2020.
Then in November just when you thought it wouldn't, "Indian Summer" arrived. That's a nettlesome term of longstanding cultural currency, not all of it strictly appalling.
As opposed to Injun Summer, which you don't much hear anymore.
On the prairie of my childhood, that's what folk called the typical late autumn warm spell just before winter set in. Despite the multigenerational myth pimping, looking for vanished Indians dancing on the smoke of burning leaves never made any sense to me.
Even as a kid, Where there's smoke there's fire seemed more relevant.
I've heard it said that at autumn's end, with life stripped bare and its bones not yet buried beneath snow, the interdependent world becomes transparent. That for brief times and in the right places, one might catch the whole of things at a glance.
Occasionally what people say is even true. Kind of.
Except the whole world revealed doesn't of necessity bring further clarity to either life's sum or its parts.
Often, it just tells us what we already know.
Or simply confounds.
This year I didn't breathe clean Superior air during any season, not once. Reliably, Indian Summer came to the prairie. Once again, no dead Indians danced in any smoke that I saw.
Gifted a last minute opportunity, I searched late season fields for idols cast of light not gone completely cold. Even found a few.
We now know the prairie's continued existence depends on periodic fire. It burns out the old, converts death to energy and that feeds the new. On the savannah, fire births mighty oaks from little acorns.
Apparent abundance once blinded us to the essential role of fire. Not so much anymore.
I already knew what time it is. The ever-evolving quality of light kept me informed. Winter's not coming, it's here.
But time spent roaming afield where Indians once lived reassured me the real world progresses more or less apace. The burning autumn prairie confirms the circle of life remains unbroken.
The other evening, in cold clear air and fast fading light, sandhill cranes flew south into the night. It's late enough I doubted they'd come this year, so that was good to see. When next they visit, it'll be on the wings of spring.
Availability of apt metaphors notwithstanding.
Forward, through winter. Stay safe, be well.
