October. New England.

Mother Nature saves her best autumn finery for New England

This is without a doubt my favorite time of the year. Whether it's a loop through the White Mountains in New Hampshire, a lazy trip down Route 7 through the graceful Litchfield Hills or an afternoon spent gazing out at Hudson River vistas, you absolutely cannot go wrong. I soak in the crisp autumnal air like a sponge, savoring the earthy aromas and magnificent displays of color.

There's really nothing like autumn in New England. Majestic white steeples on stoic old meeting houses rise against a cobalt sky while the surrounding hillsides blaze with red, orange, and golden leaves.  Even the most pedestrian of leaves shine with an autumnal glow. Smokiness wafts through the evening twilight and we brace ourselves against the chill with apple cider, apple crumble, or even Applejack. Mother nature truly does show off all her best attributes here each autumn. Harvest festivals and fairs abound and everyone seems to be a leaf-peeping tourist for these few weeks. Pumpkins and apples and corn mazes, oh my! The pleasures are heartier, more rustic, and simpler. Soups and chilis are once again simmering on stoves as are New England standbys like baked beans and chowder. Favorite old worn in corduroy takes the place of sun bleached summer attire and tall boots with woolen socks begin to stand in for summer's barely there sandals. The comfort of a well-loved flannel shirt or a cozy cardigan are not to be scoffed at! This is my beloved New England at her very best--even if the Red Sox are not in the playoffs, the Patriots are enjoying a typically winning start--and I hope you're taking a moment to revel in this year's fall finery wherever you may be.

Gleaming autumn sun shines through the golden leaves

1st Congregational Church in Litchfield, CT
Autumn, 2010

And as I so often do, a nod to Longfellow for his assessment of the season:

"My ornaments are fruits; my garments leaves,

  Woven like cloth of gold, and crimson dyed;

I do not boast the harvesting of sheaves,

  O'er orchards and o'er vineyards I preside.

Though on the frigid Scorpion I ride,

  The dreamy air is full, and overflows

With tender memories of the summer-tide,

  And mingled voices of the doves and crows." 

--Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, October, from The Poet's Calendar

And PS...Hockey season starts for real this week. Huzzah!

Blue. Moon.

Steichen's The Pond--Moonrise, 1904

The Light of Stars
by our beloved Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

The night is come, but not too soon;
  And sinking silently,
All silently, the little moon
  Drops down behind the sky.
There is no light in earth or heaven
  But the cold light of stars;
And the first watch of night is given
  To the red planet Mars.
Is it the tender star of love?
  The star of love and dreams?
O no! from that blue tent above,
  A hero's armor gleams.
And earnest thoughts within me rise,
  When I behold afar,
Suspended in the evening skies,
  The shield of that red star.
O star of strength! I see thee stand
  And smile upon my pain;
Thou beckonest with thy mailed hand,
  And I am strong again.
Within my breast there is no light
  But the cold light of stars;
I give the first watch of the night
  To the red planet Mars.
The star of the unconquered will,
  He rises in my breast,
Serene, and resolute, and still,
  And calm, and self-possessed.
And thou, too, whosoe'er thou art,
  That readest this brief psalm,
As one by one thy hopes depart,
  Be resolute and calm.
O fear not in a world like this,
  And thou shalt know erelong,
Know how sublime a thing it is
  To suffer and be strong. 

Pansies and tulips and hyacinths, oh my!

Hyacinths and tulips outside Rockefeller Plaza, 2006

I'm generally fan of all the seasons, at least for a certain amount of time--I know I could never live in a place where it was one climate all year round. However, when the august swelter of August drags into September, I'm ready for an immediate (and wishful) transition to autumn. And when it comes to the first snow I can barely contain my envy when my more northerly New England neighbors are blanketed with a layer of fluffy, white, snowy goodness before I am. Patience is not among my virtues, generally speaking. 

The time has come, though, where I'm starting to daydream about spring. These past two days of balmy goodness--60 degrees in February?!?!--do have a way of setting a girl's mind to wandering. I found myself drawn to the lilac and jasmine scented candles as I passed shops on my errands today...sure signs of an emergence from hibernation. I know full well there's more snow and dreaded "wintry mix" still to come and I'm not nearly ready to put away my tall boots (for which, my pathetically white legs are more than grateful, I'm certain), but I thought I'd add a little floral inspiration to extend today's sunny temps a little longer. The weather folk are forecasting a chilly stretch to come, so I'm going to enjoy some virtual flowers and a little HWL while I patiently await the arrival of the hyacinths, crocuses, daffodils, tulips and all their hearty floral compatriots. 

Fiery tulips from the Boston Public Garden, 2008

My favorite--purple pansies, 2008

Flowers

by our beloved Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Spake full well, in language quaint and olden,

  One who dwelleth by the castled Rhine,

When he called the flowers, so blue and golden,

  Stars, that in earth's firmament do shine. 

Stars they are, wherein we read our history,

  As astrologers and seers of eld;

Yet not wrapped about with awful mystery,

  Like the burning stars, which they beheld. 

Wondrous truths, and manifold as wondrous,

  God hath written in those stars above;

But not less in the bright flowerets under us

  Stands the revelation of his love. 

Bright and glorious is that revelation,

  Written all over this great world of ours;

Making evident our own creation,

  In these stars of earth, these golden flowers. 

And the Poet, faithful and far-seeing,

  Sees, alike in stars and flowers, a part

Of the self-same, universal being,

  Which is throbbing in his brain and heart. 

Gorgeous flowerets in the sunlight shining,

  Blossoms flaunting in the eye of day,

Tremulous leaves, with soft and silver lining,

  Buds that open only to decay; 

Brilliant hopes, all woven in gorgeous tissues,

  Flaunting gayly in the golden light;

Large desires, with most uncertain issues,

  Tender wishes, blossoming at night! 

These in flowers and men are more than seeming,

  Workings are they of the self-same powers,

Which the Poet, in no idle dreaming,

  Seeth in himself and in the flowers. 

Everywhere about us are they glowing,

  Some like stars, to tell us Spring is born;

Others, their blue eyes with tears o'erflowing,

  Stand like Ruth amid the golden corn; 

Not alone in Spring's armorial bearing,

  And in Summer's green-emblazoned field,

But in arms of brave old Autumn's wearing,

  In the centre of his brazen shield; 

Not alone in meadows and green alleys,

  On the mountain-top, and by the brink

Of sequestered pools in woodland valleys,

  Where the slaves of nature stoop to drink; 

Not alone in her vast dome of glory,

  Not on graves of bird and beast alone,

But in old cathedrals, high and hoary,

  On the tombs of heroes, carved in stone; 

In the cottage of the rudest peasant,

  In ancestral homes, whose crumbling towers,

Speaking of the Past unto the Present,

  Tell us of the ancient Games of Flowers; 

In all places, then, and in all seasons,

  Flowers expand their light and soul-like wings,

Teaching us, by most persuasive reasons,

  How akin they are to human things. 

And with childlike, credulous affection,

  We behold their tender buds expand;

Emblems of our own great resurrection,

  Emblems of the bright and better land.

The Sound of the Sea

The Sound of the Sea

The sea awoke at midnight from its sleep,
  And round the pebbly beaches far and wide
  I heard the first wave of the rising tide
  Rush onward with uninterrupted sweep;
A voice out of the silence of the deep,
  A sound mysteriously multiplied
  As of a cataract from the mountain's side,
  Or roar of winds upon a wooded steep.
So comes to us at times, from the unknown
  And inaccessible solitudes of being,
  The rushing of the sea-tides of the soul;
And inspirations, that we deem our own,
  Are some divine foreshadowing and foreseeing
  Of things beyond our reason or control. 

--Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

How Dr Who Made Me Cry

 I'm not a real sci-fi kind of girl. I much prefer nearly any other genre of film or book to be perfectly honest, but now and then even I am drawn to aliens and time travel. I'd noticed on the BBC that Dr Who was featuring a plot wherein the good doctor and his ginger assistant, Amy, would be visiting Vincent van Gogh in France for an upcoming episode. While I may not be an aficionado of Dr Who, I am fanatical about van Gogh and so I had to watch.

I remember very clearly the first time I saw a real live (you know what I mean...) honest-to-goodness van Gogh at the Minneapolis Institute of Arts. I'd never seen anything like that before but I knew I loved it. His frantic, swirling brushstrokes, his love of color and the passion that absolutely flooded out of the painting--it was overwhelming. I then looked at pictures of his other works in the library (no internet back then, kiddies) and learned more about his life and grew to respect him even more. I do love a tortured genius (TE Lawrence is another of my favorite people ever) and van Gogh was certainly that. 

Anyway, back to the doctor. The episode opened with an exhibit of van Gogh pieces at the Musee d'Orsay in Paris with an uncredited and (as always) brilliant Bill Nighy as an art historian leading some tourists through the show. Dr Who and Amy recognize an alien within the window of one of the paintings (The Church at Auvers) and the travel back in time in the TARDIS to rural France ca1889. 

You'd be correct to assume that while things didn't go exactly according to plan, Dr Who, aided by van Gogh did eventually neutralize the capon-ish looking alien thereby making countryside safe for the villagers once again. But the twist--and what got me all choked up--was the end. Van Gogh was famously unappreciated during his lifetime so during the episode his friends from the future resolve to take him back to 2010 and show him how much his work has meant to the world. It's a little Capra-esque device that might sound cloying, but it wasn't, it was quite poignant. Once in the Musee d'Orsay van Gogh sees the throngs of people gathered to view his work and Dr Who himself even engineers it so Bill Nighy's character speaks to the great humanity and passion he sees in Vincent's work. Upon returning van Gogh to his own time, now knowing how beloved he will be, Amy believes that the artist will now not take his own life at 37 and will accumulate a large, new body of work. Dr Who knows better but they rush back to the museum to find nothing changed...van Gogh having died from a self-inflicted gunshot wound at the young age of 37. When Amy lashes out that they didn't save him or help him after all, the doctor replies to her with the comment that all of us have piles of good things and piles of bad things and that the trick is to not let the bad pile outweigh the good one. Dr Who reassures Amy that they definitely added to van Gogh's good pile.  A lovely sentiment, to be sure, as to how we impact on others, and vice versa, in large and small ways.

So there I was, all choked up over Dr Who--of all things--and half thinking how brilliant it would be to be able to go back, meet and spend time with artists or writers that we admire; the other half of me thinking how wonderful it would have been for van Gogh--and so many other talented artists, writers, poets, dreamers--to have known while they lived that someday the world world would come to appreciate their talents. As with van Gogh, I'm not sure that knowledge would really change anything, but it is an intriguing thought. 

I'll leave you with a little Vincent then, and a little Henry...The Olive Trees by van Gogh and A Day of Sunshine by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. Two of my very favorites and I think they go very well together...van Gogh's painting, in some ways, bringing to even more realistic life, Longfellow's beautifully worded poem. Enjoy, and have a safe and happy Independence Day weekend!

(The Olive Trees)

A Day of Sunshine 

O gift of God! O perfect day,

Whereon shall no man work, but play;

Whereon it is enough for me,

Not to be doing, but to be!

Through every fibre of my brain,

Through every nerve, through every vein,

I feel the electric thrill, the touch

Of life, that seems almost too much.

I hear the wind among the trees

Playing celestial symphonies;

I see the branches downward bent,

Like keys of some great instrument,


And over me unrolls on high

The splendid scenery of the sky,

Where through a sapphire sea the sun

Sails like a golden galleon,

Towards yonder cloud-land in the West,

Towards yonder Islands of the Blest,

Whose steep sierra far uplifts

Its craggy summits white with drifts.

Blow, winds! and waft through all the rooms

The snow-flakes of the cherry-blooms!

Blow, winds! and bend within my reach

The fiery blossoms of the peach

O Life and Love! O happy throng

Of thoughts, whose only speech is song

O heart of man! canst thou not be

Blithe as the air is, and as free?