Autumn Trees and Fallen Leaves

Lori is my child muse. When life is complicated, I bring Lori to me for her innocence and her simplistic views on the world and the creativity she brings to my work.

Fully into autumn, I feel the sun’s last warmth soothing my temples and hear the deer rustling through leaves on the forest floor.

“Mr. Harry…help me, will you? I don’t know how to get in.”

Of course, she doesn’t; the last time Lori visited me, I lived in Mendocino, on the coast of California. I don’t know that I explained to her the reason for the move to the Midwest, but then, well, there’s nothing I do that Lori doesn’t know before I do.

“Coming, Lori. Wait there. I’ll show you how to get in.”

My home is set in the forest, its gate hidden by fallen leaves too high for Lori to wade through. So, I will remove the gate, leaving open the steps that go only into the forest.

“Mr. Harry, when is it time to stop living behind gates?”

There, you see what I mean? “I’m going to take this gate down, Lori. Next time you come calling, you can just hop up the steps. How will that be?”

“I will like that, Mr. Harry. Look at all these leaves, so many. We didn’t have leaves like this in our last home, did we?”

“We did not. Here, I’ve cleared a path. Take my hand; the steps aren’t very even. Be careful you don’t trip, Lori.”

“I won’t Mr. Harry. I’ll call you to hold my hand. I’m sure we will get some snowy days, don’t you think?”

I’ve heard it said, to begin with, every page is blank, bare, until a word, smudge, or paragraph is upon it. But, even so, some pages remain empty after the most intricate story has begun.

The starting of a new story is easy; it’s the ending that comes hard. I start my stories in winter, the branches are bare, but slowly I feel the story growing, adding a little more intricacy, budding words before the spring and filling the page like leaves happening on winter’s bare branches. Then, as I move deeper into the story, words blossom quickly, filling in empty spaces so that a story begins to take shape as if a canopy over a forest.

“Mr. Harry, you have no view of the ocean, no horizon, no white sails at sunset. Won’t you miss your life in California?”

Moving one’s life is exactly like putting that first word on a blank page, hardly knowing what will follow. I take hold of Lori’s hand, helping her climb the steps.

It feels complete, in a way California never allowed.

In the Midwest, there’s no calling for me to go here, go there, but safe in the occasional sounds of nature. Hiding, not in sea fog, but behind bare limbed trees, highways for squirrels, thin branches like stringed instruments, waiting on the aching tones of deep mellow flutes, and a summer filled with rhythm under candy floss clouds.

All the new sounds, smells, and visions under the sun seem to support this dream.

“Will you be happy here, Mr. Harry?” Lori asks, standing to one side as I lift the gate off its hinges.

“There! No more gates. Yes, the reason for moving to the Midwest is love, Lori. That always makes me happy.”

“And why I always come to find you, Mr. Harry.”

“Thank you, Lori. Now tell me, what brings you to the garden today?”

I can feel the inescapable pleasure of holding a child’s hand, hear the song of life going on, the dancing feet, the laughter of innocence, and the quiet resignation of an old man waiting for a grandchild to visit?

“Same thing, Mr. Harry. Love.”

We sit together at the top of the steps. A family of deer are wandering by, watched by a Barred Owl, sitting on a branch above us.

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