We are visiting my mother-in-law for her birthday. My daughter asks me all morning for a trip to the park. Curiously, I am interested in the park this day; I am compelled to get some fresh air, to see…to see the sky, the trees, and the clouds, to smell the day. The seemingly bleak autumn morning beckons me like an old friend from long ago…“let’s go out and play!” I think, perhaps, I might create some cool images of her playing. I gather my camera and a second lens. My daughter changes her clothes …twice.
It is overcast when we set out. A rouge raindrop lands on my cheek, reminding us of the potential. The air is charged with wind. As with every journey, my daughter starts with a fuss. Jacket on or off? “I want to leave this jacket at home!” she protests. “Bring it; it’s getting chilly,” the prudential response falls from my lips. My head is getting cold so I put my cap on. “If you wear that cap, I’m not going anywhere with you,” she swears. The pouting begins. I chuckle inside. She walks ten steps behind me. Then, she walks tens steps ahead. Pouty cheeks in motion when I glance. After ten minutes, everything settles to a balance. Then, she is holding my hand. Ten fingers bundled together. I chuckle inside. Resignation now wears on the cheeks in motion.
We move on…together.
We anchor at the play complex in the park. She plays on the bars, climbs, slides, swings, and hangs. The jacket comes off of course, another treaty broken. It’s my turn to bend. Some things can never be explained; they must be experienced. I capture some images. We joke with each other about nothing in particular. “I love you Daddy,” …kisses and hugs.
Across the park, she sees a second play structure behind a schoolyard fence. “No, it’s locked up sweet pea,” I advise. She can not listen. She runs for the schoolyard gate, leaving her jacket on the bench. I gather up her jacket and trot after her. She pouts now because I am taking a picture of her clutching the pad lock and chain of the “locked” gate. She runs off in flight from me, sprinting across the rain soaked grass, only to find an abandon ball lying among the fallen leaves. Abandoned by whom I wonder? Some poor kid is now missing a ball. We begin to kick the ball about the wet grass. We kick to hit the light pole, we kick for distance, we kick for higher and higher heights, and we kick through the v-shaped trunk of a tree. She calls my kicks a “launch.” It is a description she gave to my kicking of pinecones last year. “You launched it!” she would scream in excitement. The ball kicking evolves into impromptu game of kick ball. Along the way, I capture a few images of her playing, running, and kicking. A father is compelled to be with his children, to play with them, to be there for them. It can not be contained.
As I sit on the bench and watch her chase the ball about the park, my eyes are drawn to a nearby maple tree. Its leaves are falling, wind swept against a dark sky, the arbolian equivalent to the changing of clothes. The leaves scatter across the grass every which way, looking like the floor of my daughter’s bedroom when she can not decide what to wear. I look up to the dark, cloud-smeared, patterns in the swift moving cloudscape; they lure me. I look for patterns, seen long ago as a boy...but can not find them. Those old patterns are now gone…forever. As for the patterns of today, I will see only now.
We move on…together.
A lonely raindrop strikes my cheek as I smile. Warm drops that roll down my cheeks join it. I look down at my boots, wet now from play, and covered with tiny pieces of fresh cut grass. Her “new” boots are in worse shape, I grimace. But my mind is pulled from such trivial matters. The tree sways and releases more leaves. I inhale through my nose and the moment begins to solidify. The smells register. The cold damp wind fills my mind. The smells, the sights, the sounds, of autumn rise within me. And, with it, a Spirit re-visits. A friend from the past bundling me up, carrying me up, urging me forward to the future…once again. This feeling conveyed is nostalgic for sure; but that is the past, the memories of autumns past. The visit is really an accession; it contains a reckoning. A reminder of sorts, you see. And while I find myself pleasured in my mind by the nostalgia, I know there is much more to this visit; for this friend has visited me before, many times before. His visit is not really a visit of course. He is always with me; but like everyone, I am not always awake, not particularly paying attention.
From my memory, a passage from the Dune Chronicles rises up. The father counsels his son about their imminent, perilous, journey on which the entire family must embark. It is a journey the father knows will be one-way…for him. As for his son, the journey means great struggle, great sacrifice, and great promise. He says to the son, “I’ll miss the sea, but a person needs new experiences. They jar something deep inside, allowing him to grow. Without change something sleeps inside us, and seldom awakens. The sleeper must awaken!”
Autumn has always been my favorite season. Beyond the literal sense, it has been, for me at least, "the season of change;" to morph, not wither; to lift up, not fall to earth; to reflect, not prepare for hibernation; to grow, not shrink from the challenge of passing time; to become more human than one’s previous self. We are not fixed like the seasons, the leaves. In the words of Prospero, “We are such stuff as dreams are made on and our little life is rounded with a sleep..” The moment, the visit, tickles me for questions; it’s always about the questions, you see. I ask then, what change do I yearn for this fall? More importantly, what will change in me?
The solemn moment, in all its firmness, breaks! This moment in time; it is more than a passing moment; it is not the fixed tumble of dead leaves or the rain drop; it is, the realization of ones humanity, ones special nature, ones journeys on being raised up to “conscious joint action,” born of will; we are being “launched” on a trajectory toward what we are designed to become…human beings. But our free will is critical here; it’s an active process on our part. Our will is the engine for the journey. One has to look for it, seek it, ask for it, and allow the visitor to make His visit. Without it, without the search, without the letting in, we become fixed; we remain asleep…forever…we become fixed in time; we become the cloudscapes of our past.
The ever-changing sky continues to roll over head. The wind gusts; leaves scatter. Another isolated drop kisses my face. She yells out to me, “Daddy! Look what I made!” I walk to the base of a redwood where she kneels. She has created a flower. Rendered from a stick, clumps of grass, and yellow plastic fragments, it stands there, a pseudo-vernal interloper under the stormy autumn sky. Contradictory as that seems, it belongs…somehow. “Daddy, look at this…isn’t it pretty?” Now, she is pointing to a clump of clover in a root hollow, at the base of the redwood. Seemingly insignificant, it is actually quite nice. It occurs to me that creation and discovery are change too. I try to create an image of the clover, but the wind moves the petals making focusing all but impossible, another moment that can not be held. Maybe next time…
We move on…together.
Time to head home. We leave the ball on the field of play, among the fallen, but not lost. She almost forgets her jacket, which is strewn across the park bench like so many fallen leaves. She runs and picks it up. Then, she dons it for the chill. “I had a really good time Daddy.” “Yes, WE really did have a good time didn’t we baby.”
I muse to myself; yes…WE all did this autumn day…together.
Kevin Keeler
October 30, 2010
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