Peak Peek

Furious wonderful flaming days, then litter, then trash to be collected and decomposed.  Such are the days of our lives _ oops, I mean of these maple leaves.

• Peak canopy color this year has arrived nearly simultaneously with peak political fervor.  Foliage is spectacular, campaigns less so.  In either case, I wonder who is paying attention.
• Colorful trees are easily ignored.  Children are in their own world, enjoying everyday miracles without need for extra attention to flowers in spring or leaves in fall.  Teenagers and young adults are wrapped up in each other, with other events a mere shadow background.  Working folks are glued to smartphones _ possibly the only nature ever encountered in their busy busy lives is viral video.  Retirees have time but are easily distracted. 
• Nasty politics are monopolized by ignorant fanatics, cranky ancient crones, and blubbery old gents who are angry that the world they anticipated never happened.  Nature in their world is basically invisible except, perhaps, on their private postage-stamp property where others dare not tread.  Brightly colored drifting detritus will not distract them from raging self-importance. 

“Old Faithful” the most colorful maple, or possibly sugar maple, in the area.  I am instantly nostalgic for its color each season.

• When pressed, millennials and other young voters claim that votes do not matter.  It is easier to accomplish real change with social media.  I hate to agree, but they have a point.  The bedrock of cultural custom, the vagaries of civilized fads, are transmitted and if necessary enforced by tweets, videos, and funding pages, just as they used to be by churches and newspapers.  Distant and glacial Eighteenth century modes of government seem increasingly irrelevant in this age, especially when all rulers appear to be corrupt pawns of global plutocracy.
• Voting, compared to enjoying seasonal landscapes, even seems pretty sill to me.  My vote in this district, in this country, makes no difference at all in a population of 360 million.  Better I should stare at a brightly backlit orange sugar maple,  or yellow hickory leaves shimmering in the breeze,  
• Once upon a time I did believe in political discourse, in trying to compromise, in understanding other’s points of view.  The fanatics have left me behind.  I prefer to ignore their brittle shouts and listen to calls of migrating birds or the rustle of boughs as they lose their covering.  But as a hopeless romantic, I will go and vote anyway.

Somewhat menacing beauty portents long brown vistas which will soon settle in.

• Elections and seasons occur with cyclical regularity.  Like sunsets, each easily overlays all other similar experiences.  I hardly remember any particular elections nor autumns.  A few sharp experiences _ a flaming woodland dell in New Hampshire decades ago _ may stand out, but usually I can only remember, at best, what happened this year or last.
• Politics fade too.  The great debates of my youth, the great angers of today, inevitably yield to the passions of the future and monotonies of daily life.  Voting seems to have little impact _ even the most momentous changes such as civil rights or losing the Vietnam War were, on later analysis, just as much from social momentum as from new representatives gaining power.  Politicians often go with the flow just like the rest of the human herd.
• Peak foliage is wonderful.  Peak politics is tiresome.  After this peak, life will go on.  But I am kind of glad I have been stirred by either, as spice to my daily existence.  

Peak peek

Monday

• This is not New Hampshire or Vermont, with mountain ranges sheathed in red orange yellow, and glens of blinding kaleidoscopic  mid-afternoon color.  Trees in much of Long Island are far more sedate, moderated by bodies of water, and generally turn genteel shades of ocre, umber, and sienna before being rudely torn by northwest gales.  Nevertheless, there are spots and locations here and there where one scarlet maple or a stand of golden hickories will provide some brilliance.  No matter what, this week will be the full show until next year.
• I try to remember my hidden spots and revisit them.  A certain church pond is pure old New England, a pocket park contains a vibrant swamp, and cemeteries  flicker in full glory.  It’s just a matter of me making the effort to get around.  Soon enough, I will fail to notice as I keep head bent down to industriously rake leaves from our lawn only to watch it become covered once more.  Sisyphus in the New World.

Tuesday

North chilling breeze

Through crisp leaves

Turning gold

Makes me long

For warm songs

Summers old

All surrounds

With dark sounds

Faintly heard

While I fear

Ends drawn clear

As Verlaine’s words

And I arise

Full of sighs

Pained and slow

Tasks are few

What I do

None will know.

Wednesday

• Betty Allen Park is a small pocket preserve around a pond.  Nearby, heavy traffic streams constantly, but here there is a certain tranquility and lovely autumn views.  Long Island has fortunately preserved little jewels of what once was as massive development occurred over the centuries.  Within a short (driving) distance of almost anywhere there is somewhere to enjoy and reflect on what nature remains.  Mostly flora, at this point, with birds.
• An almost unknown local park like this is one of my secret inner maps _ I try to get here in the spring when the leaves are bursting fresh green, in the summer when swans nest amidst ferns, in the winter iced over forlorn, and of course in the fall when the pond reflects red swamp maples.  There are too many of these areas to remember all the time, but I try to visit, and be grateful that there are so many, so hidden, and such sanctuaries from strip malls and intersections.

Thursday

Jane was walking her big black dog when I passed her along the harbor road.  “Bit chilly, eh?” I said.

“Ah, but it does bring out the colors.  Not so much here, of course, but Johnny and I were up the Hudson Valley last weekend and it was gorgeous.”

“There are some really nice trees here, too,” I began.

“Oh, you can’t imagine how is from looking here,” she noted dismissively. “ The Catskills were spectacular.  Not as good as Vermont last year, but we didn’t feel up to a longer trip.”

“Maples  in Hecksher …”

“Pitiful.  Why waste time on them? It’s not the whole experience.  It’s not overwhelming.  We like to be overwhelmed, Johnny and me.  That’s why we like trips.”

“Well, my wife and I don’t like the hassle,” I replied, “so we make do with the local parks.”

“You deprived things,” she laughed, “you just don’t know.  We’re going at least to Westchester on Saturday.”

“How about the pumpkin festivals out east?” I asked.

“Might as well stay in your backyard.”

I agreed, but in a different way, and did not comment.

Friday

• Hecksher park has a few brilliant maples, unfortunately few remaining on pond.  These trees were planted quite recently during one of the playground innovations.  Perhaps it is appropriate to keep young trees with young children.
• All life has a cycle, but I tend not to realize that is the case with trees.  They just seem so long-lived that from my perspective they always have been where they are.  But almost all the huge pines along the water have gone now, and Hurricane Sandy wreaked havoc with some of the others.  Anyway, the most important part of seeing as an artist is to find beauty everywhere, small and large, always.  

Saturday

• Some of the popular music of the ‘60’s had almost biblical injunctions inserted.  One I remember is “if you can’t be with the one you love, love the one you’re with.”  Good advice in many things.
• For those of us fortunate enough to be able to live with little fear of starvation or violence, we need not seek the “most” or the “best.”   Finding a perfect life or a perfect place is almost impossible at any time, and absolutely impossible at all times.  Winter woods are less colorful than those of autumn.  But we still need to find the beauty and serenity of a dormant forest, even if its views do not stun us instantly.
• All most of these natural things do, after all, is to fire our imagination and thought.  We bring all the other concepts from deep inside, invisible to the outside world.  Once in a while, an artist can communicate from an inner vision to our own _ but it is still our inner vision which must be provoked.
• And so, as this colorful week begins already to fade into brown hues, I continue to seek the joys of seeing and thinking, even in a world of falling, drying, brown.  Even as I must rake and bag to preserve the green of the lawn just a little longer.  I never claimed it would be easy.

Sunday

• Japanese maples are always lovely, even having a wonderful pattern of branches to glisten with rain and outline in snow.  Leaves, which are a dull red treat even in summer, turn brilliant in October.  And when they dry and fall, they remain red and shrivel into insignificant vestiges which become mere ground decoration.  And unlike native species, these remain relatively small even at maturity.
• There are always one or two problems, of course, even with this most spectacular of imported species.  This plant, like all maples, has aggressive surface roots that prohibit just about anything else from living underneath it, which can be frustrating if it is planted in a front yard.  But a glance at these scarlet leaves on a wet morning is at least one reason to put up with any problems, and indeed a good argument for being happy that we have some options in landscaping not fully reliant on native plants.

-