Autumn brings change, to this part of the world, so lovely in its inherent warning of what is to come. As I scan the horizon, my eyes rest on the newly naked branches of trees that hug the shoreline. I am in search of the birds which may be revealed. My bright red kayak takes me on what is likely to be the last paddle of the season, and I recognize my own resistance to the inevitable changes on the horizon.
I deeply identify with the last crispy leaves to fall from the cottonwoods that line my beloved lake. The golden vestiges of sunlight bring focus to the sparse profile of trees intelligently preparing for winter. Those still hanging on in resistance have my heart in mind.
I wonder, as the cold droplets of a changing lake take refuge on my vessel, if they are they the brave ones hanging on to the last moments of autumn’s glory. Perhaps, but maybe they are cowards denying the changes the angle of sunlight will soon bring to our both our soil and our bones.
The lake is clearer now, one can see to the bottom as water lilies wave goodbye with the help of the bay’s ripples, knowing they must go before the ice forms above them. Some round leaves are still green and I identify with them as well. Do they miss the dazzle of their white flowers like I do? Or are they more mature, sensing they will be back when the spring equinox signals their ability to return.
The V formations of geese and ducks head south now in rhythmic waves of planning. I wish them well and their safe return, pondering who has it easier, the birds who must go or those who must stay. I do know I appreciate the risk in both journeys.
So now my own journey begins, as I wrap my kayak in its winter cloak a part of me goes to sleep, the part that is awakened only by spring flowers and summer breezes, but in that slumber a renewal is brewing as well as the lessons I have yet to learn.