Attention Seeking
There is a particular moment in October when you realize that summer, like a lingering party guest you thought would never leave, has vamoosed without bothering to say goodbye.
There is no trumpet fanfare - one morning you simply step outside and the air has changed. It’s lost its damp, heavy quality and acquired a crispness that suddenly makes you aware you are breathing in the stuff. Light is scarcer and has taken on softer, lower, golden tones. Even the shadows deserve more attention.
October is a month of change, but it is also a month of noticing.
This starts in the garden. Plants that spent the summer shouting for attention suddenly calm down, or give up and retire. Hydrangeas fade into those peculiar shades of dusty rose, green and brown you see in Medieval tapestries. Trees that were anonymous green blobs in August suddenly drop trow and announce themselves as leaf-adverse enthusiasts.
The hummingbirds, who were literally just there a minute ago, do an Irish good-bye and casually slip off to migrate a few thousand miles. Their method of departure has long made me suspicious of their country of origin. Some say Central America, I’m inclined to think it’s the Emerald Isle. They’re a little too fond of fighting and a good drink.
Meanwhile, other birds are arriving or passing through. The backyard becomes a sort of seasonal airport, minus the TSA lines and the overpriced pizza slices. Migration reminds us that the natural world operates according to schedules that have nothing to do with our calendars.
The local deer are changing, too. The ones that visit my back door have begun their own seasonal wardrobe transition. Their summer coats, that warm tan that makes them relatively inconspicuous against a growing landscape, are giving way to gray. Soon they'll blend almost perfectly into the trunks of the trees and the muted colors of the winter woods.
It is camouflage, of course. Nature's version of changing the upholstery to match the drapes.
Deer are particularly good at noticing when seasons change. They know when the acorns are falling, which plants are worth eating, and when there is a person standing at the door who might be persuaded to provide a scoop or two of corn. Wildlife, I've discovered, has a remarkably sophisticated understanding of human generosity. Not friendship exactly, just an accepting tolerance of fellow travelers on the same path.
Even my house becomes less static and more or a thing in motion. Windows are opened in the morning and closed in the evening. Blankets reappear on chairs. Firewood starts looking less like clutter and more like potential. The kitchen, always the heart of the home, becomes more attractive in different ways, where quick and easy are replaced by slow and savory.
Over time, I've come to appreciate October. It isn't simply the month when things die back. It is the month when things reveal themselves.Without all the summer foliage, you see the architecture of the garden. Without the relentless greenery, you notice the design of a tree. Without the constant heat, you spend more time outside, or let the outside in.
And perhaps that is the larger lesson of October.
We tend to think of change as something that happens to us. The seasons change. Our gardens change. Our houses change. Eventually, whether we like it or not, we change. But October suggests another possibility: change is something we might simply learn to observe.
Nature doesn't hold a meeting about it, she just drops it in your inbox and saunters away. A leaf changes color. A bird leaves. Another arrives. A deer grows a thicker coat. The temperature fluctuates. The garden gives up one thing and offers another.
No one announces that the hummingbirds will be departing effective Friday. Nature simply changes, and if you're paying attention, you notice.
Maybe that is what makes October so rich. It rewards observation rather than intervention. For once, you don't have to fix anything, improve anything, redesign anything or make a spreadsheet about it.
You just have to slow your pace and have a look. And notice, perhaps, that there is something comforting about a world that is constantly changing while somehow remaining recognizably itself.
That said, where’s my damn rake?
