Dreaming the World

A bright, sunny day now that the fog has lifted. The fields and verges are a range of August browns, tans, and russets. Joe-Pye weed is everywhere while we await the blooming of the New England Asters, the flower kingdom’s celebration of autumn.

We finally had rain Wednesday and were treated to the grass turning green as we watched. The wind from hurricane Erin, which has remained a few hundred miles off the coast, has calmed down but the north-easterly breeze is still stiff and cold. We shut all the windows against the rain and wind, and have not reopened them as it feels more like late October than August. The town and utility company keep reminding us that we are overdue for a strike from a major hurricane.

There was just enough rain to soak deeply into the soil so even the trees are looking better. There may be more rain on Monday before we face another dry spell. The trees and shrubs need a few days of rain soon, then still more, so they have a chance to store moisture and nutrients in their roots before leaf fall.

I’m sitting here with my morning cup of coffee. Usually we would have had our cup by now, but the morning has been on the busy side. There is something delicious about writing at my desk, coffee next to me, and Nori, the cat, sleeping on the rug by the loom. She is good company even when, like now, she feigns disinterest.

As part of my project, in which I am revisiting old country journals, I’ve been reading A Sense of Seasons by Jean Hersey, published in 1964. Hersey lived in the New York City suburbs in Connecticut, which in 1964 were still rural. Her husband worked in the city and the commuter train was just a brief car ride, sometimes buggy ride, away.

I found Hersay’s narrative profoundly evocative of my life in a tiny rural Illinois farming community. My dad was stationed at the small Air Force training base that was literally attached to the town. We had a good sized vegetable garden in our back year, adjacent the railroad tracks, from which we ate all summer and into the fall. The “town” ran on the agricultural calendar and it was not unusual for class sizes, especially in the high school, to shrink noticeably at planting and, especially, harvest, time. We kids lived outside year round and kept close track of seasonal markers, events that were often discussed in the classroom, and the knowledge of which was deemed a crucial form of literacy.

As Hershey noted, the seasons in Connecticut were more or less predictable, and there was an abundance of insects, birds, wild mammals, and open land. Summers were hot, and winters long, cold, and snowy, even at the coast, The first frost came in mid to late September and spring usually arrived in March. The seasons in west central Illinois were much the same.

While climate change is not really on Hersey’s radar, as it would be for writers twenty years later, hers is a world of immense change and danger. Lurking always are the threats of nuclear war and environmental degradation. Her response is to do what she can while writing, and grounding herself in the mystery that is our lives lived in relationship to all of creation. Beyond that, she just wanted to be kind, even if that only mean giving someone her Green Stamps at the grocery checkout.

Hersey tells stories of deep friendship and mutual support during a time without devices. She occasionally feels lonely and is OK with that as she places it within the larger context of immense networks of care and support. Reading her warm, thoughtful, home centered prose is enchanting, nostalgic, and a harsh reminder of just how much has changed.

I’m nearing the bottom of my cup of coffee. Nori has turned around to engage with me and is happily grooming. The day is advancing and its time to get further along with my list of tasks for the day.

I hope your, no matter how harried, brings you moments of peace, creativity, and joy.