October Magic

I sat down and waited for the magic. The grass was pushed down from previous visits, and I leaned against a large, solitary white pine. My muscles and tendons soon relaxed. My body sank softly into the cool earth. The grasshoppers and crickets hummed and sang and lulled my mind to a quieter state. The south sun warmed us all—the insects and birds, the plants and trees, the rocks, and me.

To my left, a dragonfly sunned itself on the siding of the house. A yellowjacket whizzed by quickly, looking for the last flowers and a morsel of food. I took off my glasses to see the true colors and shapes surrounding me. I removed my shoes and socks and let my bare feet rest on the cool grass and pine straw. The feeling from the earth soothed them. I rolled up my pantlegs. The sun shone brightly, warming my bare skin and a passing fly who stopped to bask. I grew sleepy. My body wanted to lie down, but that would be an invitation for Sam, the barn cat, to curl up on me and scare away the magic.

Birds sang now and again. I heard some kind of warbler and a male chickadee with his fee-bee song. Did the warm sun fool them? Did they think it was spring?
           
A bee—or was it a jellowjacket?—flew to a lone yellow flower, a fall dandelion. I put on my glasses and crawled over. A fuzzy-eyed Apis mellifera. Where was its nest? Where is your honey, honeybee?
           
I strolled over to the garden, careful to keep my body language carefree like a child’s, so as not to cause any bird alarms. So much life still left in the little garden. Broccoli, carrots, and beets. Edging of long, thick grass that escaped the lawn mower’s reach. Scores of crickets and grasshoppers. A few flies. My garden is a cricket’s jungle. That’s why the turkeys walked through each morning, I imagined—to eat crickets and grasshoppers and spiders. I wondered what would be left in December. Would a few plants, hidden under frost and snow, still cling to life and the color green?
           
I wandered slowly back to my pine tree and sat down. I took off my glasses and listened. Listened for the faint warning of a junco or the bold cry of a jay. Watched for movement out of the corners of my vision. I heard the wind before I felt it. A roar flew in from the north. Suddenly the trees and plants rattled and shook. Then the wind died down and left us again.
           
Still I waited, resting. I quieted myself until I became a small part of the rhythms dancing around me. Sometimes the magic comes quickly and surprises me. My favorite kind of magic: when the golden crowned kinglets decide I am one of them and swoop around my shoulders, close enough for me to reach out and touch them.

Sometimes the magic takes a while to show itself—like when the doe, who has never decided I am a deer, brings her fawn out to graze in the pasture. However, one time I did manage to convince a group of feeding deer and their accompanying lookouts (a group of juncos) that a small group of 10-year olds and I were also grass grazers and no threat at all. But that’s another story. Whatever form it takes, the magic always comes, if you wait joyfully, quietly, and long enough.

A truck rumbled up the long, winding driveway and stopped next to the house, disrupting the peace around me. I peeked around my tree, spotted my husband, and smiled.

Well, I thought, maybe not today. The cattle and pigeons around the barn had straightened up and stared for a moment at the intruder to ascertain the danger. And the close-by songbirds had stiffened and become alert, which then would have tipped off the mice and squirrels and deer to stop everything and watch out. With a ripple effect, an intruding human alarm spread from our house outward in all directions. Which meant the magic was now wary.

Then I spotted it. High in the sky and flying from the north. White on its body? No. Dark, curved wings. Narrow tail. A falcon? It soared southwest, not pausing much at all, and disappeared over the hill. Ah! If you’re patient, the magic always comes.

Sam the barn cat strolled sleepily around the corner and brushed against my leg, looking for attention. I stroked his warm, black fur, then stood and walked inside. Tomorrow, Sam, we’ll wait for the magic again.

by Mary Doyle, UNH Cooperative Extension Volunteer NH Outside writer