‘Fall, leaves, fall; die, flowers, away;
Lengthen night and shorten day;
Every leaf speaks bliss to me
Fluttering from the autumn tree.’ – Emily Brontë
Autumn has rapidly turned to winter here in the Cape. That means it feels a though someone physically turns all the lights off at 6pm (even when we’re not currently in load-shedding/rolling power cuts), and that the typical cyclonic weather has set in. Grey days of rain when the clouds scudding up from the south are so low that you wouldn’t even know we had an iconic mountain on our doorstep, are followed by a few bright, crisp, sunny days, and a reminder that the sky can be that particular shade of blue again. It also means that the leaves are dropping rapidly. We don’t seem to have the stunning colour changes of Europe in our trees, or those inviting piles of dry leaves beckoning our inner child to venture forth and temporarily become our outer child for some serious leaf-crunching. It doesn’t appear to dishearten the packs of lycra-clad cyclists who swarm onto the roads each weekend, but the runners are definitely wearing more layers.
The seasons here crash into one another, rather than gently morph from one to another. Everyone is excited and relieved that the longed-for rain is making a significant difference to the water levels in our reservoir and dams; but having left the start of long sunny days in the greenness of England, I am one of many who just want winter to be over so we can enjoy summer again.
I was pondering this the other day as I saw the last autumn leaves clinging to a tree beyond an office window, in front of a backdrop of startling blue. I wonder whether they will still be hanging in there when the young green shoots unfurl in a few weeks. Their apparent reluctance to let go of their familiar tree struck me and I found myself feeling sorry for them. Letting go of what you know or count as ‘normal’ to embark on a new season during which you may find yourself in metaphorical free-fall is daunting. It stretches us beyond our natural comfort-zone so that the temptation to resist and cling tenaciously to the present is strong. For those of us with rampant imaginations and a propensity to dwell on adverse outcomes, the prospect is even more unnerving.
Since my Dad passed away nine months ago I have found myself reflecting on how things used to be. His obsession with cooking the perfect piece of toast; the familiar whistle as he climbed a flight of stairs (‘Half a pound of tuppence rice’ – always); the particular tilt of his head as he turned a page; the way he rested his head in his hand when listening to a colleague – and which I realise I also do; how he stuck out his tongue in focused concentration when slicing bread or using a screwdriver… I can still hear his chuckling laughter and see his face in my mind. I want to keep all those memories alive without an unhealthy clinging which might paralyse me from moving on in the dance of life. And I realise that I am helped in this by two important things.
First is the raft of pictures my Dad took over the years. He was a devotee of slides, now an archaic form of photography probably made obsolete by computerised technology, memory cards etc. His collection remains collated and labelled in chronological years and seasons, laboriously sifted and sorted in ancient ‘Agfa’ boxes in the family home. My favourite childhood Saturday nights were those when the rolled screen was carefully removed from its long grey tube and hung on a nail in the picture rail of the sitting room. With the deliberate care of a scientist, the projector would be unpacked, balanced, connected, re-positioned and tweaked until the full illuminated square sat plum in the middle of the screen. Then, with unequalled delight the slide show began and we watched a parade of pictures chronicling the latest holiday, bike rides or school activities. We’d laugh at ourselves when we had been caught unawares or captured with an unfortunate expression or mid-blink, re-tell stories around a particular moment and screech with delight as we re-lived it all: days on the beach with our grandparents, summer days on farms and playing in rivers, school plays, assault courses we cobbled together in the garden, church outings, family gatherings, Christmas celebrations with cousins… A veritable kaleidoscope of family life played out in the 1960’s & 70’s. Later, graduations, engagements, weddings, and babies all featured in Dad’s collection and I never tire of returning to them again and again, cementing the memories of previous times and relishing their recollection.
The second aid that’s helped me to move on is, quite honestly, gratitude. I don’t say that smugly or glibly. In reviewing ‘the way things used to be’, I don’t think I have rose-tinted spectacles, nor am I struck by the ‘razzmatazz’ of that life – there wasn’t any. It was ridiculously ordinary as far as I ever knew, and the simplicity of so much of it makes me thankful in retrospect. The familiar routines of daily, weekly family life undergirded by the comforting rounds of chores – my Dad applying himself to financial admin, with box files scattered across the kitchen table, while my mother ironed yet another pile of clean laundry; friends we had known for years and grew up with; a plethora of church ‘aunts’ & ‘uncles’ who, as a community, championed us. There were times when I thought our life was dull. Other families ventured abroad, had outrageous relatives, lurched from drama to drama, navigated crises and tragedy; we just plodded quietly on. It was only on leaving home and discovering life beyond that familiar bubble with all its new adult responsibilities, requirements and restrictions that I understood the value of what we had. The strictness of our parents was their way of protecting us; their adherence to particular values probably cost them in ways I will never know. They were not perfect, of that I am well aware. No parent is; I know that now too. But I am grateful for their consistency and their love: for us, for each other and for God. It held us all together in a time and place I can’t return to (except when I pull out the photographic archive), but which helped shape me, teach me and prepare me, at least in part, for life beyond the family.
So, like the last autumn leaves, I sometimes yearn for what has gone; but unlike them, I choose to happily dance into the next season with gratitude, knowing that my treasured memories carry life, comfort, hope and certainty.
dancingthroughchaos 