Yard Notes

We are having a mostly exquisite summer here in Massachusetts except that it rains too often, which is, I suppose, why everything has remained so fresh and green. It is mid-July and not a dead blade of grass is to be seen. Every single branch and leaf of flora radiates a glowing, photosynthetic green. Where we now reside in Monterey our large living room window looks out across the way to large grass-rimmed pond. Every morning that the sun shines, this view is like looking out over burnished metal; the sun glare rebounds across the water until it roils silver. The view is stunning and it never ceases to blow my mind that something as simple as sun and water could outdo the most fabulous efforts of man. Not even Solomon’s most extraordinary palace could ever compare.

      Perhaps it is because of the regular rainfall, or perhaps it has nothing to do with precipitation at all, but the leaves on the oak trees surrounding our property and lining the road are another phenomenon all there own. The same sun that turns water to silver transforms leaves to emeralds. Layered in lofty spreads against the pale pre-dawn sky, the thick greenery drapes itself, a dull camouflage cloak, over brown-gray bark. From the moment the sun makes its first glittering appearance – expanding over the horizon, teetering precariously on the rim of the tree line until it tips over the edge and into the morning to expose its fullness – a fairytale begins to unfold. Like the rags of Cinderella under the persuasion of her fairy godmother, the leafy cloak begins to glow a faint yellow-gold. The opaque jacket starts to unravel layer by layer; skeins of heavy brown wool wind and coil before dropping to the ground. In an unmarked moment imperceptible to the observing eye, unseen hands reweave the leaves in gossamer-gold thread until a translucent film is all that remains. Even as the sun sets, there remains into twilight, a vague afterglow, a solar radiation still flowing in their veins from the heat of the day.

      I live on the highest hill for many towns around.  Because of the abundant vegetation there is little in the way of a surrounding view – it’s like living above the clouds. We see only the trees, the lake, the thread of dirt road that winds by our house, and the expanse of the sky. Our only pedestrians are bears, deer, and an occasional feral cat. There is one teen-aged bear who is very fond of blackberries and eats them the length of our road. Earlier this summer I had spied a number of green black and red raspberry thorns in the preliminary stages of development. Thinking to myself that I would certainly enjoy their fruits of late summer, I made a mental note of the places and continued on. Just days ago I went out for an early morning walk, in hopes of finding them full grown and ready to eat, only to discover my little black friend merrily munching by the side of the road. There was not a ripe berry to be seen. There died my idyllic hopes for raspberries and yogurt, raspberries and chocolate, raspberries and tea.

      There is more to life than raspberries and leaves that flash like emeralds: things like college, track, reading, family. But for the moment I am relaxed and blind to the urgencies that rush other people by me because I am learning to rest in the knowledge that if I allow God to order my steps, everything that must be accomplished will be, and nothing necessary or special will be left undone. Trust. It is all about learning to let go, fall back, and trust that God knows what He is about.