#545: How to Move Forward

Today I spent several hours moving the leaves around the yard.
Our house is surrounded by gigantic oaks and every year
we get absolutely buried. Because I can only afford to hire
someone a few times a year, every November I begin the work
of prepping for leaf removal by a great and laborious shifting.
I blow leaves into piles until the battery dies about twenty
minutes later, then, while the battery charges, I continue
the work with a big ol’ plastic rake, and then, when the battery
is charged, I continue to blow the leaves into piles, and
the process repeats itself about three or four times until
my arms are sore and blisters threaten to build themselves
in between the crooks of my fingers where the rake rubs
and chafs. There’s a meditative quality to it, this work.
I am exerting my control over the nature in the yard
but the leaves often have minds of their own; they
go their own way, and as I corral them here and there
they reveal their secrets, gigantic mushrooms buried
beneath the surface and whole armies of tiny ones in clumps,
all emanating the strong, hearty, smell of earthy fungus.
I try, for some reason, not to mangle these things in my raking.
They, too, I’m sure, have their purposes. I am not a Quaker
but I know one, and he has a sticker posted above his desk:
I am a Quaker, it says, in case of emergency, please keep silent.
In between the blower charges, there’s only the sound of the rake
rustling through the leaves and I’m not talking to myself.
I reached out to some friends this morning just to say
I was thinking of them, and one friend shared an article
with me about the power of art in difficult times. Two
days ago I would have felt that all my artistic endeavors
were, in the end, absolutely fruitless, a waste of time.
Now, in the yard surrounded by leaves, with friends that I love
within reach, music, and some inner work inspired by these lines
from Wendell Berry:

And we pray, not
for new earth or heaven, but to be
quiet in heart, and in eye
clear. What we need is here.

I am slowly but surely coming back to myself,
not centered (that would be asking too much too soon),
but something like the center, holding on tightly
to what is close at hand, recognizing what matters
most, like right now, getting these leaves into tidy
piles so I can move them into beds until winter is over.