November 2005

From my window the view has changed. The beautiful green leaves that hid me from farther scapes have changed to yellow, and many more have fallen to the ground.

The movement of songbirds and red squirrels through the branches has stilled. Now I can see past the trees along the bank to the river itself, where hundreds of geese are leisurely eating the still vibrant weeds beneath the surface. Often I see a parent and a young goose fly about. These are noisy affairs as the parent tells them how to stay in formation. A second adult arrives and then they start practising for real and the youngster is energized with concentration. The adults talk non-stop as they switch sides in the formation of the ‘V’ expecting a perfect execution from their offspring. This is serious stuff, and after the lesson they let their adrenalin return to a calmer pace floating again into view. 
Those of us who stay around for the winter have our own kind of preparation. More of my time is spent at the hardware store getting weather stripping, putting fresh coats of paint on damaged storm windows, fixing the roof, and chopping wood.
September and October have been happy months of canning and preserving the gifts from the garden. The basement is full of mason jars, the freezer with arugula and basil pestos, and cool shelves are covered with several varieties of yellow and green squash. The herbs I potted are brought inside to fill the house with their savoury smells. Now, before the tractor comes to plough in the garden, is my favourite game of finding the potatoes, buried in the mounds. Tiny chickadees fly to the tips of the tall thin asters nearby. Their weight pulls them down close to the ground where they talk excitedly about what the upturned earth might uncover. This year the treasure hunt was more urgent after I discovered my rings were no longer on my fingers, and had to sift through 20 square feet of fresh dirt. 
November brings an end to harvesting herbs for Algonquin Teas. The barns are full and we are grateful for every leaf. Our bodies are relieved that the season’s change means less pressure to harvest. There is a finality that comes with the deeper frosts now. We must hang up our summer tools and replace them with snow shovels come December. In November there is a chance to surrender to the cycles and appreciate the abundance of the past seasons as well as mourn the loss of new green shoots, and the end of summer’s warmth, before the cloak of darkness comes to tuck me into reading the 20 books by my bed. There is time to appreciate the beauty of the coloured leaves that cling to the trees, the crispness of the Canadian autumnal air.
My pint-sized nieces and nephews are being raised in the Middle East. They have just been visiting and felt too cold to go outside when they first arrived. Well it did not take long for me to see a pouting face, who, when asked what was wrong, said everybody else had a rake or a wheelbarrow but him. That was quickly remedied and we watched them tear around outside for a week, disinterested in coming in to warm up and have lunch. On our last morning, while the frost was still on the grass, we went out in the canoe in the mist and everyone wanted to come. They had caught the magic of autumn’s changes.
On sunny November days I race out onto lakes and canoe while there is moving water. In Renfrew County here at the top of the Ottawa Valley, there are seemingly endless hills framing the valley. At their crests one can sometimes see other lakes and 80-kilometer vistas of passionate colour. The other day I found myself looking at a breathtaking view. When I got out of the car to take it in I fell to my knees, overwhelmed by the beauty of how trees choose to express their final waking days.
On grey days I go slower. I suspect it is my blood thickening for winter. I also think about death, and the different ways I have viewed it over the years. As a child the trees seemed to “withdraw” their energy, birds and animals “abandoned” me to the cold. As an adult autumn brings an understanding that these relationships will be renewed and restored after a period of rest. As I embrace the naturalness of cold grey November days my fear of death itself loses its bite. With each exhalation I die and with each inhalation I am renewed. Soon the beautiful crystal white snow will come and brighten our winter days and kids will be playing hockey on the frozen river. I can make angels in the snow and listen to the roots of the trees dream, while the sun warms my cheeks and light begins its return.