Sounds of rushing water thunder in the near distance. It’s the cacophony of the river Styx reverberateing from one side of the canyon to another.
The thunder lacks clarity, familiarity, comprehension . After all, we’ve played in canyon streams for decades. There is a comfort, a healing which comes as barefooted we cross the soft rounded stones which lead to waterfalls and natural dams.. the sound gives us comfort.
Why is our acoustical antennae disoriented. Some force from the mystic beyond is unexplainable.
Words to describe the Styx as it rushes past? Groping, we search our internal thesaurus. Lost, we’re lost.
Why are we nervous, hesitant? The closer we tread to the river bank the paranormal feels close by in the reeds and on the embankment. Brushing against us, creeping Charlies cause an instant rash, a burning.
We want to know more, hear more, understand more; then why are our internals giving us messages of uncertainty and fear?
We’ve trekked for decades . Familiar values, beliefs, comforting friends, life has moved on a predictable course. Slowly the walking path to the Styx becomes less predictable. We double check our memory bank… we are losing touch with past events.. our body aches, tires, talks to us in the dark of the night. Comforting guideposts which lead us safely to the waterfalls of the Styx are less and less present.
A hiker coming away from the river asks “ Sir, can I help you?” There it is again..Others addressing me in the context of my aging face, limping gait, the shadow of a dimmed youth. The ravages of time cannot be disguised. We are indeed old.
The trail to the Styx has no place to turnaround.. no way to return to our youth. Stopping at the river’s edge comes a recognition that there is no turning back. The Styx is the carrier of the inevitability of life’s end.
We are alone. The sounds we can’t identify – we have never heard them before. We have never seen or heard the end of life’s inevitability before. God stands in mid stream. Arms outstretched. We look into the stream. Paranormal beings tell us not to step off the river bank.. Dante waits.
Clashing, thunderous sounds emerge from the river. Just beyond is a vista of peace. How do we get from point A to point B? We are alone. Our friends and family have passed on. It is just us.
Alone.
Hurry because the clouds are gathering: night is near: how long do we have?
paradise is obliterated. Worse, the summer sunlight is life threatening to these creatures accustomed to a world of total darkness.
What right do I have to intrude?
Gently rolling clumps of enriched black earth in my hands, enjoying grit under finger nails, recalls the wise of great grandmother Fisher ” Treat the earth as God’s gift and you will be rewarded. Abuse her and you will be punished. the earth is one of God’s fondest creations. He created it for us to cherish”. Ah, the Puritan ethic runs deep.
Peering from the underside of her ever present Amish bonnet, Grammy knew whereof she
spoke. the war gardens in which she toiled from sun up to sun down from April to early November in the 1940’s protected our family from the perils of starvation. Some of the less energetic neighbors did not fare as well.
The men of the family? They were members of the greatest generation fighting for their lives as part of the Big Red One, Pennsylvania’s keystone regiment during the Battle of the Bulge.
The women? They toiled amid oppressive heat and noise at chocolate factory.. Standing on unforgiving concrete floors for long hours, my mother never complained. The work was part of her patriotic duty –making chocolate bars for the troops- including her husband.
How did we survive?
Mounded rows of russet potatoes large red tomato plants, spring onions, stalks of pole beans and mint tea plants provided the staples. Additionally, we spent Sunday afternoons scouring the rocky hillsides of the Blue Mountains scrounging for blueberries and non-toxic mushrooms. The blueberries and their lesser respect relatives, mulberries, were subsequently canned and stashed on crude wooden shelves in the coal cellar.
All this begs the question. How inconsequential is the replanting of a lawn when we owe our existence to the pluck and determination of those who came before us?
All this begs the question. How inconsequential is the rep
Two trees are planted in our simple yard. They are positioned prominently as remembrances to our deceased mothers. Knowing we are on the downside of our lives, it is hoped that these trees will display the beauty of God for generations to come. Yes, it was our way of sharing memorials of beloved mothers.We see this as a simple and meaningful gesture. Plant the trees, nurture them in the early years, and nature takes over.
For any species to survive in the Great Plains is a miracle. For two trees to battle and endure the harsh climes is amazing. Twenty four months ago, we stared out the kitchen window admiring the latest 6” of overnight snow fall. As always, the sturdy backyard tree survived the snow, ice, and 40 mph winds blowing south from the Canadian provinces. Mid winter and the soybean fields are now acres of dormant brown splotches. Falling burnt orange needles from the stand of blue spruce trees creates a protective bed for rabbits, squirrels, to hide during the arrival of inevitable blizzards.
As usual, Mother nature awakens us from the dreaminess of superficial observations. A furled, fatigued singular leaf catches our attention. It remains attached to a narrow limb on Grandma Gress’ otherwise barren maple tree. Strong! The leaf hangs on with a determination reminiscent of Grandma.What is the message? Each wintry morning, steaming Colombian coffee in hand, we gather at the window to see if our friend remains. Yes, December, January, February it is still attached.
What is the message? Is there a message?
We struggle to interpret what are Grandma Gress and God saying? Is she reminding us about her lifetime of strength, perseverance, indomitable religious faith.? She played such a major role in establishing our life values. Regrettably, on a gray March morning we jointly notice that the leaf has disappeared. Our friend has slipped away silently into the darkness of a frigid winter night. Sadness envelopes our hearts. Will the leaf return?
This winter has seen 19 days of unrelenting snow in the first 23 days of December. Temperatures are 6 or more degrees below normal. Snow storms seem endless. Beautiful white mounds become a curse when we daily grit our teeth and feel the brunt of early morning arctic cold. We apprehensively part the lace curtains and check to see if the driveway and deck are again covered with more of the white fluffy stuff. The surrounding forests and fields are again void of leaves and green color.
God takes us by the hands and leads us to the kitchen window to enjoy the beauty of His snow covered landscape. There it is again, a singular leaf clinging onto the same tree. An identical twin of the furled brown leaf from 2 years ago, it beckons for our attention. Again!Like its predecessor, this fragile gift of nature survives the impossible forces of harsh winter storms. The leaf faces us each time we look out the window. Is it smiling at us? Is this real or a product of our imaginations? A blessing? Fervent prayers for healing and perseverance have been heard and answered by God again and again as we have endured medical and other challenges in the 24 months since first being greeted by our leafy visitor. The leaf seems to reach out and encourages us to continue to pray, to have faith.
A freak of nature? Accidental, just a coincidence? We believe those with little faith may have a difficult time explaining away this remarkable happenstance. It is time for us to pray, to listen, to meditate. We have been blessed. May we welcome the spirit that rides with the leaf back into our lives and tell us what is wanted. Now is the time for us to sacrifice. We remain convinced that this is more than a coincidence!
Solitude – A single leaf by Christopher Flees. Used with permission.
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