Dreaming Autumn’s End
The ground is encrusted in ice this morning
while the pond is liquid still
reminding me that
in my dreams
I was frolicking
in lovely, temperate waters
that suddenly
began to swell.
Alarmed, I made my way toward the bank
and just as I lifted myself out
what was once fluid, grew as solid
as the earth.
Autumn’s Surrender
I look past the garden’s destruction
to Autumn’s colors parading up my road
bright reds and fiery oranges calling
Look up! Look up!
I want to look down,
Mourning the passing of summer
But the colors clamor,
Look up! Look up!
Gifts are on the horizon
Autumn’s turning in
Is the medicine I need
Halloween Vermont Style
“I really like the houses where we sit down and talk to people.”
Aidan, age 14 (last trick or treat?)
Halloween is a unique experience of community in rural Vermont. Unlike the warp speed of suburban trick-or-treating, there’s lots of downtime (aka. distance) between houses here–either by foot or by car. This took getting used to at first, but my kids were born here so they never knew the difference.
Over the years, I’ve come to treasure this slowed experience, taking cues from my kids, who seemed unfazed by the pace, stopping in at homes to sit and visit, munching on the baked goodies while we talk, and getting acquainted with members of the community we may know only from sight.
Each family has their own highlights for sure. I know that mine loves the bit of walking we do from house to house on our mile-long dirt road, bumping into others in the dark and banding together as we arrive to spend time with neighbors.
Margaret and John’s has been a favorite over the years, and we feel the sting of her loss now. Jean at the Inn is another highlight–with hot cider for all, and amazing cookies for the kids (they always share …after I beg.)
Rachel and Pieter live way out from the center of town, but their homemade donuts are worth the drive. Then there’s Gail’s fudge up on the hill, and Megan’s pumpkin seeds and blonde brownies. (We miss her old dog Millie.)
When Kirsten was teaching at the school, she made homemade taffy in her kitchen on her back road; now Liz and Craig share homemade treats there.
Sometimes, there’s a bonfire down North Pond Road; and often a moonlit view from atop Cow Path 40.
On a warmer Hallows Eve, we’d eat dinner in the small cemetery on Fox Road. Our friend Jesse is there now so we’ll at least stop to leave something at his headstone.
The hardest part of a rural Halloween for me is that we never get many trick-or-treaters ourselves. I love that knock on the door, and the sight of costumed child on my porch whose bag I get to help fill with treats. Now I bring the treats with me so that I can share them with friends along the way.
“Popcorn or candy?” I’ll ask. The kids take the popcorn. The adults all want candy.
Kelly Salasin, 2009
Making a “Living” in Vermont
(note: all photos copyright)
Watch out or Vermont will change your life. I can’t put my finger on it exactly, but I have some theories…
First of all, it is fantastically beautiful… each day, around some new or familiar corner, is a gift of sight or smell or sound. There is so much raw experience of nature here and it’s offered freely without human ingenuity.
I did not search to find a young deer nibbling in the field yesterday, she simply appeared and allowed me to gaze upon her. I did not coax the leaves around my home to burst into colors dazzling my senses. Nor did I ask the apples to give off their sweet smell on this crisp morning. And I did not beckon the mists to hang in the valley shrouding the hillsides.
All of this just IS– in a place where civilization and nature harmonize.
A friend of mine said that one of the strongest reasons she had for living in Vermont was the “tree to people ratio.” And it’s true, there’s always one (or a hundred trees) around when I need them… whether it be for shade or climbing, building or embracing. The woods here take me from season to season– from the lushness of summer to the naked clarity of winter.
I have a deep appreciation for the water in Vermont as well… the sound of it mostly, and the stillness it brings. I have the gift of a brook in my back yard, just off my bedroom door, and I fall asleep to its soft lullaby at night and wake in the morning to the sun rising over it… in pinks and purples and golds.
Then there are the people who live here in this place called Vermont. They are as unique and as diverse as the seasons themselves. Most lacking the knack (or need) at pretending to be friendly, but all expressing the ability to relate to one another in ways that matter most. It is their example and courage that help me uncover my own path in this world as we each embrace life here.
As a place and a people, Vermont holds a transformative energy. I feel it as a melting , a slowing down. I’ve begun to notice that there is this whole other world out there where life is moving much too fast; suddenly I’m no longer part of it.
May Sarton writes that ‘Everything that slows us down and forces patience, everything that sets us back into the slow circles of nature… is an instrument of grace.’
Life in Vermont is such an instrument. The rhythm of existence here offers more of a choice in how time passes, and that is no truer than in the winter months.
Time stands still in a snowfall. Lives are suspended. The world reborn. There’s at least half a year for that kind of renewal here, and this is food for the soul (even if it makes me a bit crazy .)
Then there are those other fickle seasons that don’t stay around as long. I don’t think I ever gave much thought to mud until I moved to Vermont. Now I revere is as the first sign of spring (no matter what it does to my floors.)
And when those buds start to appear on the trees, it’s like Christmas all over again. I decide that I won’t relocate or get divorced and that maybe I will have another child. The months of shoveling and the layers of outerwear suddenly make sense when what has been white and brown for so very, very long is appearing again in color.
Colors are enchanting in Vermont. They lure loads of visitors to our state each fall. I don’t know of anybody, of any age, tourist or Vermonter, who can walk by a tree on fire and not stop to marvel at creation.
There are days when I unconsciously drive home from work, pull up to my house, walk to the door, and then freeze– as the hillside engages me in worship. All the mundane falls away and my troubles disconnect. The brilliance of nature beckons, and none can resist her call.
Perhaps this explains why Vermont is home to so many artists and artisans, poets and musicians, healers and teachers; who in their practice give back so much of the beauty they find here.
To these children, Vermont offers her deep Winters to tend their work; her vibrant Springs to recharge; her lush Summers to evoke; and her rich Autumns to nourish.
In the short time that I’ve lived in Vermont, I’ve come to know her as a LIVING, breathing being.
Vermont is Life– so much more than buildings and careers and thoughts. She is beautiful and powerful. She is cold and she is icy. She calls me forth to look upon her, and to see myself in her reflection. She shows me struggle, hope, beauty and death.
She causes me to draw within and renew my ties to that which I am made.
(Wilmington, VT, 1999)
This Vermont Life 