November 2, 2013
Saturday

I have lost as you and
others have possibly lost a

beloved one,
and wonder, where are they now?

The trees, anyway, are
miraculous, full of

angels (ideas); even
empty they are a

good place to look, to put
the heart at rest—all those

leaves breathing the air, so

peaceful and diligent, and certainly
ready to be

the resting place of
strange, winged creatures

that we, in this world, have loved.

— Mary Oliver, b. 1935, American poet
from “About Angels and About Trees”

Three Trees in Autumn
Italian Lake, 4th and Division Streets
Harrisburg, Pennsylvania

I am fascinated by trees, drawn to their shapes, their colors, their textures. This blog was once called “The Gestures of Trees,” and I had thoughts of pursuing a deal to go “blog to book,” creating The Gestures of Trees: A Suburban Year. The word “Trees” survives in the path name for these blog posts, but the idea has been put so far down my list of Things To Write that I should probably consider it abandoned.

I drove around today looking at trees. We’re in that brief period in central Pennsylvania when the trees, particularly the maples, are, as Mary Oliver puts it in another poem,

turning
their own bodies
into pillars

of light,
are giving off the rich
fragrance of cinnamon
and fulfillment, . . .

My last stop was at the lake at the edge of the city where I was captivated by the three trees seen above and their reflection in the water. The tree in the center is still mostly a late summer green, but its top has begun to turn scarlet. The lake and its surrounding park are a few blocks from the neighborhood where I lived from the time I was seven until I was fifteen. The community college I attended was housed then in buildings just two streets west of these trees. In the late winter of 1967 I sometimes ice skated on the lake early in the morning, accompanied by a boyfriend. Afterward we went to his house, where his mother had lunch ready for us, and then we’d go to class. It is a memory I often savor, though the relationship wasn’t serious and I never saw him again after graduation.

I sat on a bench for a while this evening, and then I went to church. Tomorrow is All Saints’ Sunday in the Lutheran calendar, and my congregation offers  a quiet and meditative vigil service, with a slide presentation featuring all our members who have died since last November. There are four this year, including Betty Burd, a woman who was part of my Thursday morning spiritual study group and whom I miss terribly.

The novel I am working on has as its central theme the question Mary Oliver asks: our beloved ones, where are they now? Betty’s granddaughters sang during the offertory tonight: I’ll be in every beat of your heart when you face the unknown. Wherever you fly, this isn’t goodbye, my love will follow you, stay with you, baby, you’re never alone.