Today was a long day, and I am tired. I walked the dogs along the Damariscotta River, which I have done before, but today we ventured further than we’ve ever been. The newness proved exhausting. The woods were too close, dark, and cold for that early in the morning, and the river-dampened dogs were as unhappy as I was in my light sweatshirt. Later, I worked at my desk. I unpacked 2 boxes of books and emptied 4 plastic bins of my son’s clothing and desk accessories. And I marinated chicken for tonight’s dinner.
But the most tiring event was gently cleaning beloved decorative plates that we found yesterday by surprise. The box was badly labeled, and I find these incessant surprises more wearing than exciting. (Perhaps if I could find the juicer for the kitchen, and my warm sweaters for my closet, I would not be as petulant.) The plates were from my mother’s household. I was happy to wash them in preparation for putting them out on display.
What made me tired was the emotion these dishes brought to the surface – memories of my gentle mother and how she loved these things, of the house in which I grew up, the scent of the lemon furniture polish she used, the untimeliness of her death. All from rinsing a few plates.
I went to the kitchen window, not to look out, but to think about what I should do next. It didn’t seem right to start the evening with my husband in this tired, unsettled state. But of course, I did look out.
On the lawn, in the fading light of this cool autumn day, were 8 robins. Robins! The birds I associate with spring and new beginnings. And while I am the very definition of New Beginning in this house, and had spent a good part of the day unpacking items to roll into my New Life here in Maine, it is autumn after all, and the world outside my window is winding down for the year. Seeing birds of spring was surprising.
And yet, those robins were there, quietly dipping their heads into the deep grass, in short determined motions. I’m certain they’re feeding and hoping to pack on a little weight to hold them during their long trip south. A lot of Mainer’s are doing that now: getting ready to go south. Our new next-door neighbors will be leaving shortly. I’m sure the lines at the grocery store will reflect this new state of affairs soon. My life will be empty of close neighbors and robins.
The birds are preparing for a new beginning in the sunny south. My new beginning will be my first autumn in Maine. I am looking forward to leaves that turn earlier, and a longer season of cinnamon donuts and pie. I am eager for this longer season of cold, when much of the warmth comes from the brighter color of the food – squashes, pumpkins, turnips, beets.
How lovely that this season of rest and quiet healing will be new to me. I plan to sleep well tonight so that I am fully ready for tomorrow’s surprise outside my window. I will take my place in this new family of things.
WORDS FROM OTHERS
“You do not have to be good.
You do not have to walk on your knees
for a hundred miles through the desert, repenting.
You only have to let the soft animal of your body
love what it loves.
Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.
Meanwhile the world goes on.
Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain
are moving across the landscapes,
over the prairies and the deep trees,
the mountains and the rivers.
Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air,
are heading home again.
Whoever you are, no matter how lonely,
the world offers itself to your imagination,
calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting –
over and over announcing your place
in the family of things.”
― Mary Oliver (1935 – ), American poet
Amy in the Garden 
Beautiful, Amy.