November Blog – 2021

Can We Learn, From The Colorful Leaves?

Hello November! When I was young, my mother reminded my sister and me to rake the leaves and take them out to the field. Of course, that was after we jumped into the pile a few times.  No, we didn’t burn them; instead, we sent them back to the earth. I read, that leaves don’t mind falling from the tree if they can go back into the soil and the roots of the trees. They can teach us to recycle.

The Month of November brings all kinds of happenings. The last harvest from the garden, the brisk fresh air, the smell of trees and leaves, those lovely recipes made this month like pumpkin pie, apple dumplings, and delicious soups. Birds sing as though they know a change is coming with the weather. So many will hide out in the trees during the winter.

November 1st is All Saints Day when we take time to remember those who died. How does this relate to my topic on leaves? I read a quote, “How beautifully leaves grow old, how full of light and color are their last days. – John Burroughs (John was best known for his observations on birds, flowers, and rural scenes.)

If we are observant, we can learn from all of nature. I loved this quote because it reminded me of aging. Thank goodness the beauty can be within us. It is our choice to be full of light and color as we live each day. It isn’t always easy with the many challenges that come our way, but we can practice. Whether it be a colorful rainbow, rain on leaves with the sparkling sunshine, we can shine on. 

Song For Autumn ~ Mary Oliver

In the deep fall
don’t you imagine the leaves think how
comfortable it will be to touch
the earth instead of the
nothingness of air and the endless
freshets of wind? And don’t you think
the trees themselves, especially those with mossy,
warm caves, begin to think

of the birds that will come — six, a dozen — to sleep
inside their bodies? And don’t you hear
the goldenrod whispering goodbye,
the everlasting being crowned with the first
tuffets of snow? The pond
vanishes, and the white field over which
the fox runs so quickly brings out

its blue shadows. And the wind pumps its
bellows. And at evening especially,
the piled firewood shifts a little,
 longing to be on its way.

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