The Nature Of It

Autumn marks my annual rendezvous with Ralph Waldo Emerson. I cannot seem to quit him.

"Every hour and season yields its tribute of delight; for every hour and change corresponds to and authorizes a different state of the mind, from breathless noon to grimmest midnight… Nature is not always tricked in holiday attire, but the same scene which yesterday breathed perfume and glittered as for the frolic of the nymphs, is overspread with melancholy today. Nature always wears the colors of the spirit."

As cyclical as the seasons are the routines of relationship—at least my relationship with Sam, for better and for worse.

Sometimes we get caught circling in the eddies, whirlpools of frustration formed by seen and unseen obstacles. We circle around, easily agitated, never quite relaxed, or rested, or satisfied. After the highs of this life, the lows seem devastating. When we manage to catch up, to connect, get the laundry washed and put away, the dog hair vacuumed and removed, the counters cleared of debris, get outside together, share some laughter, some affection, some moments of color and joy…our little world seems illuminated. 

Then, after a day or two, or a week or two, of basking in that light, somehow the darkness returns—the papers pile up at school, the clothes pile up in the same place on the bedroom floor, the toothbrush, somehow unable to make it to the cabinet, lies pathetically on the edge of the sink, the recycling bin overflows, the shower head drips again, the toys sleep where they've been left, on countertops and on carpets underfoot, the mice return, to the kitchen and car, we eat frozen pizzas for dinner and go to bed, exhausted. In those cycles, we are sitting on swirling water, stunned to inaction, waiting passively (Sam) or impatiently (me) for the current to spit us out.

Always it does. But still, when we're returned to the moving water, we somehow forget to anticipate the next funky current; we forget to be on guard and fail to anticipate the pattern—the only way possible to break it.

Someday, maybe we will. Or maybe we never will.  I wish I knew. Nothing is perfect...but what is close enough? How do you know what to hope for, and what to accept? 

Nothing is perfect, but I suppose perspective is half the battle. Sometimes the sky can look very dark, and then, when you adjust your focus, on the same scene, the color returns.

"In the woods, we return to reason and faith."

And then, if we're lucky, we return home.