Along the trail by the creek, maple leaves flash red against the yellows of the ash trees. It’s quite a show — and a confirmation that the chill in the air means business.
Along the High Trestle Trail, late-summer berries are setting on.
Elderberries hang purple from red branches, dressed like Red Hat ladies out on the town. Honeysuckle opts for Christmas colors, setting red balls among still-green leaves. And the clustered white berries of the local dogwood carry dark center spots that make them look like manic eyeballs.
Seeing the berries cheers me up.
Last month I coached soap carving. Our church, Ankeny Presbyterian Church in Ankeny, Iowa, was throwing an outdoor block party for our neighborhood — hot dogs, a bounce castle, donuts made to order, even a fire truck. One of our neighbors offered to play guitar and sing, so we had live music, too.
Happy New Year, everybody! Or, as we sing along with José Feliciano in “Feliz Navidad,” his 50-year holiday hit: “Próspero año y Felicidad” (A prosperous and happy new year).
Look for signs of hope. The teachers of resilience offer this wisdom to the storm-tossed, the overwhelmed, the anxious. You may be way ahead of me here, but it’s advice I’m trying to take.
The walking path leads me along the edge of a wooded draw. Glancing down through the shadows of the trees, I notice a bright flash of light. With a turn-aside and a second look, I see that the creek has managed to pull the sun out of the sky, all the way down to the lowest place in the woods. From the water there, the sun blazes up at me.
I’m a small child in a crib, struggling to breathe in the night, clogged up with what will turn out to be allergies and asthma. My crying rouses my parents who take turns responding.
The canvas before us looks to be from a surrealist artist.
In the center, a figure in a beaked plague mask rides a green horse. To one side, bed-sheet banners with the message “No Job, No Rent” hang from apartment windows. To the other side, shirts on marching protesters bear the inscription “BLM.” And scattered through the scene are darkened churches painted upside down.
“Did you write this?”
I glanced at the page. Squarish letters in black ink with variable-width strokes. Just the kind I used to make with a chisel-end pen. Just the kind I inscribed on numerous baptismal certificates and wedding records over the years. Definitely my work.
