So today I took down (a tad sadly) our Travel Tree.
If you have followed my little blog for a while (and why on earth would you not?), you may remember that Robert and I have a second, smaller Christmas Tree which we call our Travel Tree. All the ornaments are ones we have purchased on our various travels.
As I cleared the little white tree, my eyes kept resting on a couple of simple ornaments.
And I didn’t want to hurriedly take them off. So I let them hang around a while longer.
HR and I have visited Plains, GA, hometown of Jimmy and Rosalynn Carter, a couple of times, appreciating the small town that birthed such a tremendously kind and humanitarian couple.
May President Carter, as he is being laid to rest this evening next to his beloved Rosalynn, finally Rest in Eternal Peace, after a long life well lived.
Marveling this Monday Morning at the simple and beautiful truth of poetry.
Small Kindnesses
By Danusha Laméris
I’ve been thinking about the way, when you walk down a crowded aisle, people pull in their legs to let you by. Or how strangers still say “bless you” when someone sneezes, a leftover from the Bubonic plague. “Don’t die,” we are saying. And sometimes, when you spill lemons from your grocery bag, someone else will help you pick them up. Mostly, we don’t want to harm each other. We want to be handed our cup of coffee hot, and to say thank you to the person handing it. To smile at them and for them to smile back. For the waitress to call us honey when she sets down the bowl of clam chowder, and for the driver in the red pick-up truck to let us pass. We have so little of each other, now. So far from tribe and fire. Only these brief moments of exchange. What if they are the true dwelling of the holy, these fleeting temples we make together when we say, “Here, have my seat,” “Go ahead—you first,” “I like your hat.”
Danusha Laméris’ insightful poem asks us to notice and cherish the many “small kindnesses” we exchange with strangers as we move through the world. Though quick, these moments have the potential to fulfill our shared need for compassion.
Robert and I live in an old 1800’s apartment building in Historic District Savannah, so we don’t have much garden space. But we do what we can. (Correction: HR manages most of the “doing.”)
Here’s our little Japanese maple as she decided to “seasonally change” her outerwear recently.
Isn’t she gorgeous?!
I told her, EXCITEDLY, that she was simply LOVELY in her shimmering gold, thinking she would receive the compliment graciously.
And she did. Sort of. The she smiled, as wise sentient beings often do and said with patience (which wise sentient beings often have): “Neal” (I was thrilled she knew my name), “seasonal change, as you call it, is a part of life. We all go through it.”
“And sometimes it strips you bare.”
“Oh Gosh”
My smile drooped a bit. I wasn’t really keen on that part of our convo.
“It’s a part of life,” she said with no trepidation in her voice.
Maple got me to thinking, and I know I have probably used this poem far too often in my blog, but it SO resonates with me, especially as I’m getting … older and “seasonally changing.”
Nothing Gold Can Stay
Nature’s first green is gold, Her hardest hue to hold. Her early leaf’s a flower; But only so an hour. Then leaf subsides to leaf. So Eden sank to grief, So dawn goes down to day. Nothing gold can stay.
— Robert Frost
Here are a few of Robert’s photos of Maple and her “seasonal change.”
So today, HR and I had lunch with our dear friends Don and Jim at the salad-ly delicious Urban Deli within walking distance of us here in historic district Savannah.
Beyond yummy food.
Especially their salads.
I opted for the brussels sprouts salad, along with a healthy helping of their red beet salad.
I consumed it far too quickly, never thinking about taking a photo remembrance.
Afterwards, as we were sitting, stuffed, Savannah fall conversing, I looked down on my plate …
So for this Sunday evening before Thanksgiving, I was thinking about what the holiday is actually all about and ran across this little meditation on giving thanks and embracing gratitude …
Approaching Autumn often finds me in what I call (probably foolishly) my Melancholy Joy Frame of Mind or Temperament: 50% Despondency at Summer’s Goodbye and 50% Delight at Fall’s Coming Orange Cool.
And as I find myself getting close to Autumn this year, I realize that I too—and not just 2024—am in my September Stage of Life.
Approaching Autumn pulled no punches this morning when I unexpectedly ran into her in, of all places, the shared second floor hallway of our old Savannah apartment building.
About a week ago, Robert had placed a beautiful, summery-looking orange day lily with several blossoms in one of the hall windows.
This morn, when I opened our front door and walked out into the hallway, I saw her there in the window. Approaching Autumn herself.
I walked over cautiously to her. 
A bit dismayed at what I saw, I clumsily asked, “What’s going on? You don’t look like summer anymore.”
“Neal. It’s time. I’m Falling.”
“ I still don’t get it,” I complained. “You can’t just out of the blue … BE Fall. You are Summer.”
“Do I look like Summer now?”
I stood for a bit … stuck. In between seasons. HR growing anxious behind me to get on with our breakfast date.
Approaching Autumn, sensing my frustration, asked, “Weren’t you an English major in college? Didn’t you read Frost? He understood. Let him remind you:
I can’t say I completely and lovingly embraced her/his explanation. But I did find a melancholy beauty in its Truth.
I started to walk away when Approaching Autumn spoke her last: “And just so you know Neal, you don’t exactly look like summer anymore either.”
But she smiled as she made the comment. I released some pent-up tension and paid her back with a new season Melancholy Joy smile of my own.
“Let’s go,” I said to Robert.
And with creaky knees, I tackled the narrow 1850s stairwell and headed outside into yet another new day.
NealEnJoy 