Season of Death

As Samhain approaches, we are moving into the season of death and rest, of shorter days and cooler weather.  Here in South Florida, things are mixed up a bit, as in this part of the country we are shifting into a milder season, when growing plants becomes easier and we spring more to life as our bodies become more energized by not needing to expend so much energy sweating. Living in South Florida, this is my favorite time of the year, though even when I'm living in northern climes I find a great amount of joy in the season of autumn, when the veil between the worlds is thinner and the leaves are doing their grand painted display. I miss the spookiness of the trees beginning to shed their clothing, the crisp chill of fall days tempered with bouts of Indian summer.  Where I live now, I search for fall wherever I can find her, in migratory birds visiting us for the winter, fresh breezes devoid of the heavy humidity we experience most of the year, and the rituals of autumn which always ground me and make me feel a little bit closer to the earth and to the part of the country where I was born and which I miss with a pain that I sometimes feel all the way down to my toes. 

Our garden began to fail a bit while I was visiting family and friends in Massachusetts, but it's bouncing back somewhat, happy to be relieved of so many hours of scorching sunshine. The roses were elegant a few days ago, but their cycles must include the sadder, withered blooms also. 


Something is eating our bougainvillea, though I've yet to determine the culprit.  This occurs each year, leaving the usually gorgeous plants stripped of leaves and sickly and thin. Inspired by the number of people engaged in organic home farming, I'm contemplating the start of a new vegetable garden.  With the economy in a tailspin (in spite of the supposed recovery some say we're now moving into) and our food sources being contaminated at every turn, the idea of greater food independence is extremely appealing to me, and we have room enough in our yard to host a small vegetable garden.  Even a small yield would be wonderful; I remember picking home grown peppers a few months ago, before our previous garden became unproductive (we didn't organize it well, making weeding and harvesting difficult, and something began eating everything in it before we had a chance to pick the vegetables ourselves).  I think the vegetables tasted better just for having grown in the very ground we live upon and for having been nurtured by our own hands.

Yesterday, I was overcome with anxiety.  Nothing seemed to be going my way, and I finally erupted in the bank when told that the teller could not print a check for me due to the printer not being operational.  I have found that this bank, in spite of levying so many fees on its customers as to be capable of fixing such things as printers, always seems to have some sort of problem going on.  More than a few times I've visited this institution only to be told they couldn't help me due to some situation or other. Now they are telling us we will be charged to use our debit cards (with a monthly fee) and I wonder why.  Surely, the service won't get any better!  Banks, like many other businesses in America, have forgotten that they are in existence to serve the people.  Customer service has been replaced with greed, plain and simple.  At any rate, because we are hosting company over the weekend, I wanted to have my errands completed yesterday.  Now, I will have more to do today and only hope that the printer at the bank is once more able to do its job.

We arrived back home in the late afternoon, back to our little oasis in the storm.





I walked to the hen house in the corner of our yard, and opened the hatch, expecting to see both hens pop excitedly out.  Only one jumped the coop; Molly, however, remained inside, appearing uncertain and out of sorts.  When I lifted her from her sitting place she didn't protest, but that isn't very unusual.  Having been attacked by a dog when she was a baby, she's used to me handling her and doesn't tend to peck at me or squawk very much.  Still, she was too quiet, too willing to have me holding her close to my body, inspecting her for possible injury.  I could feel that something was wrong, but I couldn't locate anything visibly out of place.  I placed her gently on the ground, where she began to teeter like a drunken man, hanging her wings downward in an attempt to gain a greater balance.  Her sister hen acted like her normal crazy self, even pecking me in the eye when I shoed her away from Molly, who she'd begun to harrass moments after I sat on the grass with her in my lap.  Thankfully, no damage was done to my eye, but I shoed her away in earnest then, and she finally wandered off to happily search for grubs and other insects in the grass.  I eventually placed Molly on the ground and allowed her to slowly walk about on her own.  She was shaky and I was worried, but I put her near our side door, where I could check on her often.  I kept telling myself that, even if it turned out that she was sick and we lost her, this would be a part of the cycle of life, that we are in the cycle where death is more recognized, and that after it comes an eventual rebirth.  This didn't soothe my nerves much.  I would miss seeing sweet Molly each day if she was no longer merping among the living (merping is my word for the sounds our girls make).  I'm not ready for her to pass over into the Summerlands, no matter how much I tell myself that death is part of the natural flow of life. I was suddenly struck by the idea that if she would just be okay (I've grown quite attached to our hen ladies over the past year or so) then all of the annoyances of the day would really be meaningless. I was overcome by the thought that most of the events which cause us so much grief are not life and death situations but only occurrances that create inconvenience.  We allow ourselves to be overwhelmed by little things like wonky printers and people driving at a speed of fifteen miles an hour in front of us on the roadway, but things like this are temporary and don't amount to much sadness or struggle in the greater picture of life.  It's the little miracles that effect us the most, should we choose to have our eyes open to them, the places where life seems to shoot up from barren ground. 



When I checked on the hens last night, both were sleeping on their roost, curious as to why I was poking my head in on them in the dark of night.  I felt a sense of relief, though I'm not sure how Molly will be today.  I still have errands to run, but I know that perspective is, indeed, everything in life. I can choose to be frazzled and angry, or I can focus on the things for which I'm grateful. Today, I'm focused on healing, on readying our home for a beloved friend's visit, on cherishing my beautiful and delightfully crazy daughter, and on doing my best to be a compassionate member of the Universe. 

I hope your day is filled with peace, and the perfect balance of dark and light.