I am still walking every day. Most trees have by now dropped their leaf load, which lays in a brown, desultory layer. I scuff through this crunchy layer on my walks, and the resultant ruckus is deafening. One can’t even carry on a conversation with a friend when walking this way, at this time. In a few weeks, though, trampling feet, rain, and other vicissitudes of weather and time will compress the leaves to a point where footfalls elicit merely a whisper, a sound that won’t disturb the welcome quiet of winter woods.
Our mood is somber—appropriately so, I suppose. Some people may be turning inward, feeling a need for quiet in which to inquire as to the nature and root of disturbing and destructive forces at play in the world. Others are pontificating about WHAT MUST BE DONE, AND NOW!! Who is right?
I recapture the serenity and safety I am privileged to enjoy when I notice illuminated red leaves, the last-hangers-on kissed by low-angled light of November. I also know we are capable, yet, of perceiving what is kind, generous, compassionate, and beautiful in this world.
I have thought a lot, in recent days, about my grandparents—all four of them immigrants to this country, 100 years ago, more or less. To make their various and arduous journeys to Ellis Island, they left behind places where survival was dubious and made more so by prejudice that dogged them and their families. I wonder what they would say if they could witness today’s “conversation” (and I use that term generously) about refugees? The meanness and politicizing I hear makes my head hurt and my heart ache. I wish my grandfathers and grandmothers were alive so I could ask why they left, what they experienced on their journey and upon arrival. I did not ask enough questions when they were alive.
I did ask one question, however, and vividly remember my grandmother’s response. “Did you ever think about going back to visit Poland? With a shocked, indignant expression on her 90-year-old face, my mother’s mother answered this way: “Never. Never! I could never go back to that place!”
Imagine saying that about your childhood home. Imagine feeling that unsafe.
Imagine.
Our mood is somber—appropriately so, I suppose. Some people may be turning inward, feeling a need for quiet in which to inquire as to the nature and root of disturbing and destructive forces at play in the world. Others are pontificating about WHAT MUST BE DONE, AND NOW!! Who is right?
I recapture the serenity and safety I am privileged to enjoy when I notice illuminated red leaves, the last-hangers-on kissed by low-angled light of November. I also know we are capable, yet, of perceiving what is kind, generous, compassionate, and beautiful in this world.
I have thought a lot, in recent days, about my grandparents—all four of them immigrants to this country, 100 years ago, more or less. To make their various and arduous journeys to Ellis Island, they left behind places where survival was dubious and made more so by prejudice that dogged them and their families. I wonder what they would say if they could witness today’s “conversation” (and I use that term generously) about refugees? The meanness and politicizing I hear makes my head hurt and my heart ache. I wish my grandfathers and grandmothers were alive so I could ask why they left, what they experienced on their journey and upon arrival. I did not ask enough questions when they were alive.
I did ask one question, however, and vividly remember my grandmother’s response. “Did you ever think about going back to visit Poland? With a shocked, indignant expression on her 90-year-old face, my mother’s mother answered this way: “Never. Never! I could never go back to that place!”
Imagine saying that about your childhood home. Imagine feeling that unsafe.
Imagine.