I’ve been feeling very middle-aged lately: Impressed by the breadth of my own experiences and wisdom, but fully embracing that wisdom is mostly knowing how much I don’t know. There’s also a feeling of settling in, like an older home that’s fully anchored in its foundation. Storms might blow up, as they have so many times before, but the ground beneath the house is level, and the footings and beams sound. This house has been through a lot. It has needed repairs and updates, but it has been a good, sturdy house, and in all likelihood will continue to be so for a while yet.
To use another metaphor: I used to think I was a bird person. I was always flitting somewhere, too often left to the whims of wind and weather. Now I feel more like a tree person. My thoughts are still like birds, subject to quick and unexpected flight, but my body? Not so much.
There’s also the aches and pains and the mysterious stiffness that no longer occur just in the few minutes after waking, but are liable to last all morning and into the afternoon. Stretching or going for a brisk walk is not something I do to keep the popping and crunching of joints at bay, but to keep them from getting worse. Truth be told, if I wanted to take off with a quick, unexpected flight, I’m quite certain my body would not be very obliging anymore.
Fortunately, I’m finding I’d much rather be a tree than a bird. As we watched more flocks of birds migrating through this week, using the trees in a yard for a quick break, I wished them luck on their journey, but I didn’t envy them. The birds have a thousand miles to fly before they get to relax, while the trees just have to drop their leaves and take a snooze. Standing by the window, cup of coffee in hand, woolen sweater donned, I’m with the trees on this one — staying home sounds a lot more appealing than heading to the Gulf of Mexico, even if warm weather waits there.
So now, I snuggle in and start a pot of soup. There was thick frost on the green grass again this morning, and the first brushes of sunlight weren’t strong enough to melt it. I went out to water sheep, and had to break a surprisingly thick circle of ice out of the bucket. Winter is coming, and the coziness of home and hearth beckon warmly.
Meanwhile, my daughter has become increasingly delighted by decorating for Halloween, so the coziness of home and hearth is tempered somewhat by the abundance of skeletons, paper bats and felt spiders. That hits a little different, too, those aches and pains and the subtle shift away from sudden flight have the sting of mortality to them. A well-built house and a solidly rooted tree can remain standing for a long time, but nothing lasts forever.
A few years ago — chronic illness colliding with a middle-aged unraveling — autumn became a reminder of all I was going to lose. My kids were growing up — dropping them off at school was just the beginning of so many endings. Subsequent autumns have had a lot more lasts than firsts, and that is so hard. There are a lot more skeletons in the house of my soul now, too.
I’ve written many times — here in this column, and in my books — that endings are required so new beginnings can occur. I used to spout this adage as if it were well-earned wisdom, but it was actually a way to avoid grief. Now, I am learning to let my leaves drop more gracefully. I am learning to let the birds pass over my head. I am learning to settle in and settle down. I am learning to let the night come so the soil can sing a chilly lullaby to my roots, and the stars a chilly lullaby to my branches.
