When we have passed a certain age, the soul of the child we were and the souls of the dead from whom we have sprung, come to lavish on us their riches and their spell.
—Proust, Time Regained
Fall, summer’s shadow, hints at winter. I hear the screech of the hawk gliding high above the treetops and the crows cawing back and forth to each other in a language I am only beginning to understand. Fields of lingering gold: Jerusalem artichoke and goldenrod mingle with iron weed and poke. Fall might mean death and decay to some, but I rejoice in the lessening of humidity, the shortened days and clear, pure nights.
When we travel to foreign lands and step out into new and different air for the first time, it exhilarates. The first morning of cool, crisp air of autumn is like that for me, transporting me to another place and time, which is no more than the changing season.
Like in spring, the animals are again on the move: turtles, insects, mammals, migrating birds—their patterns shifted from the lazy, abundant summer. Each year I see fewer and fewer turtles, toads, butterflies, and other insects but this year the decline was dramatic. I feel the loss and wonder if the world will, too.
Far out in the fields, Sparkle and Stash speak following the scent of roaming rodents. Perhaps they smell the two little fawns that with their fading spots have taken up residence. Their mother was killed and now I watch them, bonded together and playful, zipping around, yet wary. They graze on tall grass then snap heads up, forever watching. Every time they zig and zag closer to the road, my heart flutters.
The resident snakes have vanished, yet bittersweet wraps itself around tree limbs in imitation, and the smell of burning leaves permeates still air. Russet leaves rattle and fall. The light changes. In the dusk of evening there’s a golden glow. Nights are dramatic: windswept and starry. A half-moon darts across the sky, carried by moving clouds.
Soon, All Hallows’ Eve. I remember the Halloweens of childhood. To this day I still watch Charlie Brown’s Great Pumpkin, and feel the warmth of childhood, the smell of bread baking and meals cooking. It’s said that the veil between the living and the dead is most thin on Halloween or All Saint’s.
I think of the dogs who’ve gone on, the past tense already claiming them when I write. I try to connect and sometimes it’s enough just to focus and remember. But other times, they come to me like ghosts in a dream, surrounding me, ducking and dodging in and out of my consciousness, playful and light, yet constant and eternal. And I realize they never leave us, not really. We’re connected—connected through love.
All of them—the ones here in flesh and those now no more than memories—visit when I summon, as I look deep into their eyes in a faded photo. And all teach me something of how to live this life more fully and care for the dogs here now with more presence, and for all beings, all of life. They’re all unanimous in saying: be present, take nothing in life for granted, live simply, love simply, simply love.
In deep and reverent presence, time slows, and time is regained.
The two little fawns, alert and wary, yet growing used to my presence.