Things Fall Apart: Dissecting Autumn

It finally felt like fall, so Silas and I headed for the hills where she scarves the sugar maples with red, the sassafras and oak with spotted brown, and the black maple and locust with yellow. I stopped in my tracks and collected samples as Silas embodied golden light during the magic hours.

It's that time of year where I may come across disgruntled hunters amongst the trees. It's squirrel hunting season and Silas knew to stay close to his neon-clad mama and to stay on the trail, away from hidden traps.

I slipped my leaves between the pages of my Pennsylvania tree field guide. It was especially chilly compared to the valley below where I live. I navigated the small rolling trail, praising the sun's perfect angle.

I kept an eye out for mushrooms but instead came across daisies, owl pellets, pinecones, acorns, and milkweed pods. I gently collected them in a sandwich bag to take home. With the evidence of fall in my satchel, a curiosity began to buzz within me.

I aim to live by the seasons and cycles. Autumn, of course, is my favorite, allowing one to go inside themselves more, scavenge for fodder, let go of what is no longer needed. The six senses feel more sacred and hungry, primal. It's a time of decay--the green, leathery case of the black walnut succumbing to time and walnut husk fly pupae. Leaves, those starving artists, depleting themselves of their life source in the most gorgeous act of fast. Acorns take off their work hats, robust mushrooms wither and crumble. Things fall apart. And sometimes, so do I.

As sure as the leaves blow along the ground in mortis, as sure as they crumble under any pressure, a part of me--despite everything--brittles and blows along, detached, fragile, darkening. As internalizing as Autumn is, I become the snake swallowing itself. I linger along waiting for something to pick me up and press me between pages of a thick, glorious book. Preserve me. Hibernate me. Protect me.

Does that sound like cowardice? I don't think so. I'm sensitive. In all my life, nothing has quite hardened me. A toxic relationship, a bad decision, injury, disrespect--I have emerged from them, unhardened, still with a floppy, egg-yolk heart. A wrong look. An abnormal silence. A fading smile. My heart breaks and oozes too easily, but I'm going to let go of my shame for it. Being sensitive is not synonymous with weakness, being sheltered, or careful.

Social media as of late has been full of hard and soft women. They're speaking up and speaking out, forming a sisterhood to which I give my plaudits and gratitude but do not care to join. With enough hate and anger in the world, I don't care to contribute. The opinions of those who may intend to offend me, don't offend me. But dammit am I soft and fragile in the shadows of those whom I love, as well as my passions. So, maybe that's my hardness. My ability to enjoy an Autumn stroll alone while a sisterhood of justice and change band without me. My ability to unplug. My inability to fit in.

So, I go for a walk. I pick things up and put things down. I call Silas' name just so I can watch him run towards me. I think about how I want to better understand things. Cut them open, tear them apart. A child can point at a bird and say bird but other than the wings, does the child understand how it flies? Does the child understand the hollow bones and the aerodynamic feathers? Why its beak is shaped just so? I took my satchel of Autumn's evidence home, as well as my curiosity.

Autumn engages all the senses. The dark tones of cardamom on the tongue. The fresh, zesty smell of juglans nigra inside the nutmeat of a black walnut. Rayleigh Scattering casting its golden light, illuminating the blues and reds. Psithurism--the sound of leaves blowing in wind. The cold, slick sliver you pull off your neck after jumping into a pile of leaves (and slugs). The fantasia of those senses mixing into a delectable sensation.

I have always wanted to dissect and unravel owl pellets. Owls do not have the ability to pass the fur and bones that they consume. Instead, the materials matt and condense into shapely masses that they regurgitate.

I used my bare hands, gently pulling them apart in convenient segments. I pinched each segment between my thumbs and fingers, rubbing the hair and indigestible flesh until I found its treasures. A bit of membrane, cartilage, two tails.

As gross as this may seem, I marveled at these pellets--and the small, taloned bodies from which they came.

Common milkweed, the sun-eating, monarch-feeding, pillow-stuffing flower you'll often find along the trails. It has insects specific only to it. Although toxic, peeling open its autumnal pod exposes a scrim of latex that protects its downy seeds.

The black walnut is one of my favorites. I have a small tree in a small corner of my yard. I just might marry any person who concepts a perfume from its lemony, peppery aroma that resonates in its husk. Slicing open the leathery skin of the nut is satisfying, exposing the woody husk and dyes that continue to stain my fingers today.

These decomposing fruits release allopathic chemicals into the soil that prevent other plant life from growing, giving the tree an advantage.

It felt more sadistic than curious to pluck the mane from the daisy's head. I love seeing hardy, robot flowers in the cooler hours of a fall evening. The smart daisy closes its veil as those cool hours pass, protecting its yellow face and reopens as the sun slips back up above the horizon. Hence she gets her name, the "day's eye".

Plucking her petals felt cruel as if I were pulling feathers from a white bird's wings. They lay scattered on the table, forever detached, not committed to its body like how a sliced earthworm or octopus tentacle finds its way back to serve itself.

The Table Mountain Pinecone is a weapon to behold. Its seeds had already dispersed, leaving the spiny, hard shell behind. Female pinecones release their seeds when the right conditions present themselves. In some cases, the right conditions are a forest fire.

I smashed the acorn with the bottom of an empty beer bottle, exposing its mud-thick innards that can be processed into flour or meal for bread or griddle cakes. For those of you who do not know, acorns drop from most oak trees, depending on their age or production.

The golden hours were long gone by the time everything was cleaned and sanitized. My fingers, however, are still yellow-brown from the black walnut husks. Many people have stolen glances at my dirty nails these past two days and I'll admit, it was nice to not care to explain.

#essay #personal #pastoral #nature