Wildfires burn in the West. Hurricanes hurtle through the Atlantic. The coronavirus pandemic continues to threaten the public at large. Social discourse is fraught with tension. Democracy is threatened. Political disunity has birthed profound division. Economic uncertainty grips the nation.
With a plot so entangled it defies common logic — remember when Australia burned, the president was impeached, there was a global toilet paper shortage, the Pentagon released footage of UFOs and protests erupted over haircuts? — 2020 feels like a cheesy b-grade science fiction movie.
But there is hope amid this mad year: Fall is coming.
Sunlight is waning and, with each passing day, the cooling air is taking on a distinctly rustic scent of dried leaves. Seemingly overnight, pumpkin spice has become the flavor of choice at eateries across the region. Soon, summer wardrobes will transition to flannel, gourds will adorn doorsteps and socially distanced trick-or-treaters will take to the streets. It’s an annual time of magic when the Connecticut River valley turns into a Jurrasic landscape of mist and color.
Summer is dimming its vibrancy; Mother Nature is preparing for the winter ball.
On a recent much-needed foray into the woods near my house, I traversed nature’s red carpet on my way through this wonderful season of change: A dusting of bright red leaves had been scattered across the rocky trail ahead of me. I walked this catwalk beneath the spotlight of a brilliant red sun. Towering black trees looked on and a symphony of crickets cheered my progress.
At the end of the trail lay my destination: A familiar lake. Its translucent surface was broken only by the small head of a beaver and a startled duck, which quacked its way in a watery frenzy into the hazy evening.
Across the way, the distant shoreline was dusted by a smattering of color — deep reds, sharp yellows and brilliant oranges — as if an artist had flung paint onto a canvas swathed in green.
I don’t know how long I stood there breathing in the beauty, but it was long enough for my heart rate to fall into rhythm with the crickets’ song and my soul to recharge.
On my way back along the red leaf-covered trail, the sun crept beneath the hills and the atmosphere deepened into desaturated blue. It was everything I needed and more.
As I write this, I’m feeling fatigued and mentally exhausted; 2020 has been a long stretch so far — specifically, about 260 days, although it’s felt like a few years wrapped up into one. In these moments of weakness, I’ve found it’s particularly easy to succumb to laziness (of course, sometimes laziness is what’s needed, but other times it’s not); to binge the latest Netflix show instead of exercising; to turn to unhealthy habits instead of cultivating those activities that promote long-term wellbeing. And when healthy habbits are left by the wayside, mental health suffers. For me, it’s a spiral that started with a simple habbit that got lost amid busyness: My treks into nature weren’t as frequent in the summer as they were in the spring.
But the nice thing about nature is that it doesn’t care if humans are there or not — the wildflowers continue to grow, the beavers continue to build, the Earth continues to turn. The woods are always waiting for my footfalls; Mother Nature is ready to roll out the red carpet whenever I’m ready to return to her peaceful embrace.
Andy Castillo is the features editor at the Greenfield Recorder. He can be reached at acastillo@recorder.com.