Transitional September

There is a certain quiet in September, when the heat of summer has broken and a light breeze sways the flowers of Queen Anne’s lace. It’s the absence of bird song. Their season of procreation is complete and, for many, migration has commenced. They've been replaced by a chorus of crickets, who accompany me as I pick the last tomatoes, as I watch honey bees working goldenrod and wingstem, as squadrons of southbound swallows dip low over the pond. 

It is a month of transition— no longer summer but not yet fall— and big changes are afoot.  September stands between productivity and dormancy, between bare feet and insulated boots, between flowers and frost. It has come quickly but we’re ready for it, as the root cellar and pantry and freezer will attest. 

In another month the combination of diminishing daylength and cooler temperatures will spawn chemical changes in leaves, and some will scream with yellows and reds that cannot go unnoticed. And squirrels will pack the hollow in the maple tree with walnuts, and the queen hornet will seek shelter in woodland duff, and groundhogs will be fattened for a season of sleep.

This is the month when the unattended flower bed comes to glory, when the beggar tick and thistle and bugleweed make their unsolicited displays, and there is beauty there for those who look. The wildflowers of late summer are no less spectacular than those of early spring. Tidiness in the garden can wait; neglect has its rewards. 

On a September afternoon we take a bike ride along the river and come upon a group of wild turkeys loitering roadside. We coast within a rock’s throw before they move on, showing minimal concern. Around the next curve we encounter a rope-tailed red fox pup, who trots nonchalantly down the centerline for 100 yards before leaping through jewelweed and chicory and being swallowed by underbrush. 

I read a piece this morning written by the director of an integrative health and healing facility on the California coast.  He mentioned how the rhythm of September and October has changed.  What was once a couple months of sunny days and mild temperatures is now a time when he is particularly alert to the smell of smoke, and dinner conversations with friends include news of floods and droughts and evacuation routes. He calls it “eco-grief,” which unlike other forms of grief does not diminish with time, but intensifies. “Our eco-grief not only mourns the loss of what was,” he writes, “but also of what will be gone.”

I am by definition an old man. It’s been my living and the living of my boomer cohort that has led us here, and we have thrown a veil of uncertainty over the aspirations of generations to come. We live on, continuing to support the industrial machine responsible for the mess. A full scale transition to green energy is not easy and we are not united in our resolve to get it done quickly. 

In September, the month of transition, we can appreciate all the natural beauty we still have while looking ahead, adjusting our sights and ambitions.  Today’s eco-grief-stricken youth have everything to lose. They are watching us.