Yesterday, our world here looked exactly like this.
Today, it’s blanketed in snow.
It will not amount to much, most likely; predictions of up to eight inches at our level (which is higher than the elevation of the town of Taos) seem unlikely for snow that only began sometime after one A.M. But even an inch, this early in the season, seems novel now.
That the season’s first snow would fall in October used to be a given here. In recent years, however, the old patterns have ceased to hold; regardless of season, it seems now that the only sure thing is that we cannot be sure what any given day will bring. I exaggerate, of course, but only a little: What became sure very fast this year was drought, and when it was clear that there would be no water, the prospect of an early winter became a hope, a prayer, an article of faith.
I find myself returning to this image — indeed, to all three images in the series from which it comes — in this week every year. It’s one that Wings captured on film many years ago . . . long enough, in point of fact, that while the fiery gold and amber and orange shades are present now, not all of the trees remain. Look at this same scape along our northern boundary now, and there are blank spots: trees fallen from advanced age or casualties of the winds. Every year or two, we lose another across the highway, and it is not always the old sentinels standing watch that succumb to the ravages of weather and time.
The fence is different, too, most steel posts now replaced by wood, both sorts spread out further with the wire stretched straight and true. It is constant labor, this land and its stewardship, not so much a project or work in progress as simply a way of life, as eternal as the spirits who inhabit it.
I can look out our bedroom window now and see this same scape — same, but not identical. Yesterday, as the storms approached, arrived, and eventually departed in wave after wave, the fog lifted and descended repeatedly, a soft white shawl around the shoulders of the mountains, fringed by the amber of aspen and cottonwood. The regalia of this land is beautiful in any season, but autumn is its zenith, as this place’s mysterious light comes fully into its own, setting our world aflame even on the cloudiest days. It serves as good incentive to meet our obligations, to preserve this small space of pure magic in the face of a world burdened by industrial encumbrances.
Today will be a busy day here, and a difficult one, made all the more so by the snow and the slickening of the roads. It often feels that way when errands take us out of this space, bounded by the view of the peaks and the golden light of the leaves, by ancient posts and new fog, irrespective of season and weather.
This land is our task and our work, an obligation of stewardship, but it is at least as much our sanctuary, our refuge. And now, for this week and a precious few more, it the living embodiment of the medicine of autumn: a time of healing. of rebalancing and harmony, before the snow settles in for the long deep dark of winter.
~ Aji
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