Spectrum\Dawn De Busk
Every year, when the wild rose bushes have dropped their remaining petals to the ground, I mourn.
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People are adaptable, too.
So, I phone friends and family with my strange grief. Then, I move quickly out of my sorrowful phase and headlong into all those great summertime activities.
There's an advantage to indulging myself in these silly emotions. By the time fall rolls around, and other people are saddened by the lengthening darkness and the naked trees and the colder weather, I'm cool with it. I've already mourned the end of summer. My transition into winter goes smoothly.
But, this autumn, I had another wild rose experience, when I stumbled upon a ballet of swans close to home.
The first three times I spotted the birds, I drove by. “Too busy, too hungry, too tired, gotta get home,” were my excuses. “I'll stop later,” I thought to myself.
On the fourth evening after seeing the swans at Manmade Lake, I pulled into the dirt parking area. They were gone. Perhaps, they had migrated, and I had missed their brief stopover.
I was devastated that I'd squandered three previous opportunities to see the swans.
On the way to work the next morning, the birds were back. I paused long enough to take several photos, scenic shots for the newspaper. I vowed to get my work wrapped up that day so I could watch the swans before dark.
Sure enough, that evening, 30 trumpeter swans floated in the lake. Better yet, no other spectators were around.
I unstrapped my toddler, who headed for the water with a bag of Ruffles, claiming she was going to feed the birds. I explained they were vegetarians, not junk-food eaters.
We admired and talked to the swans for 15 minutes.
The impending sunset shone shades of pink. Three eagles circled in the west, landing to feed on salmon carcasses. Suddenly, all but four swans departed from the lake. As the birds' flight took them parallel to the horizon, the white feathers transformed into magenta, and they glowed. The sounds of huge wings pushing aside air and the low horn-like calls echoed through my being. The ballet became white dots in front of autumn-tinged mountains.
After that, every morning, I packed warm layers, comfy shoes and extra snacks. Every evening, we spent time with the swans.
The last day the birds took off from the lake in a noisy unison and headed up the Knik River, my daughter said: “Oh no, my swans, my swans. My swans are in the air.”
Thankfully, we had a chance to say goodbye.
I figured witnessing the gathering of trumpeters before migration was as appropriate a fall activity as raking leaves or dragging boxes of winter gear out of storage.
When people engage in seasonal rituals - whether practical or whimsical, they pull away from busy schedules that occur year-round.
No matter the season, I spend a certain amount of time on the computer, make numerous phone calls, attend weekly meetings, and cover community events.
Don't get me wrong. I love the daily grind of my job. But like other people, I need to celebrate the seasons that punctuate my life, participate in autumn-time rituals with which I grew up, and just get out in nature to sense each subtle change.
Psychologists and counselors say this is healthy.
“A nature-oriented ritual allows us to tap into deeper, more primordial level consciousness, to access our right brain - our creative center, to get in touch with our intuitive self,” transformational counselor Delisa Renideo told me.
The seasonal rituals taught by my family include gathering firewood, harvesting and drying flowers for long-lasting bouquets, taking inventory of winter gear, building bonfires and watching geese formations as they head south. When I do these familiar activities, I feel rooted, connected to my origins.
When I stop to savor snow-dusted mountains, fallen leaves, or swans readying for migration, it feels like a long, liberating stretch for my mind.
While displays of pumpkins and Halloween decorations in the stores remind people of the time of year, nature also demonstrates the seasonal changes.
“Taking part in nature-based rituals acknowledges that we are part of something so much bigger than day-to-day life. We expand the view of who we are. We are something bigger than our own interests,” Renideo said.
“We are part of the whole shifting of seasons.”
Dawn De Busk is a reporter for the Mat-Su Valley Frontiersman.
Comments
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