What it Means to be Human

Perched on the ledge of this liminal space, the in between, one long Labor Day pause between sweat-drenched, languorous August and the signs of the fall to come, I feel the warmth of the sun-dappled deck beneath my coral-toed, blissfully tanned bare feet and exhale deeply.

It’s not autumn yet, smirks the sweet tart, exquisitely ripe crimson cherry, just before it explodes in my mouth, a riot of summertime longing and contentment rolled into one juicy exclamatory burst of flavor. I suck the last bits of ripe flesh off the pit before tossing it indelicately into the back yard, next to the lavender and behind the garden bed pulsing with a velvety blanket of plush fuchsia zinnias and big bird butter-kissed marigolds.

It’s not autumn, it’s not autumn, they agree, swaying slightly in the soft breeze, and before I know it, I’m surrounded by a chorus of lush green nature insisting that this 78-degree perfectly perfect weather is all there is.

I take inventory and grin, silently observing the big boy not-yet-ripe tomatoes straining on the vine, wondering if I’ll eat them before the neighborhood woodchuck who’s taken up residence under the stairs does. Next to them, the proud, statuesque rosemary stands straight and tall at attention, rather pleased with its apparent invincibility to backyard predators and nosy, destructive cats. Not to be outdone, the bushy, frog-toned basil fights for space next to the overachieving bell peppers, reaching skyward in supplication for more light, more heat, more this.

More this, indeed, I think, and breathe in the fresh air, the sunshine, this moment, just as it is. For one fleeting instant, maybe two, I’m content.

I lift my gaze skyward, toward the majestic old elm anchoring the property, branches outstretched to form a protective canopy over the yard and all that’s in it. I smile, remembering how this gentle giant convinced me to buy my house 16 years ago, beating out a slew of other worthy contenders with nicer kitchens and updated windows. It didn’t matter. One look at the tree, at the promise of feeling safely held by the natural world while still in the city, and I knew I was home.

I look closer and spot the first hints of color – vibrant orange, rust, and gold – beginning to paint the tips of the elm’s mature, delicately gnarled fingers. It’s almost time, she whispers tenderly, with the accumulated wisdom of four hundred seasons gone by.

I know she’s right.

And that’s the dance, this being human, the price we pay for inhabiting this big, beautiful, complicated planet. It’s learning how to straddle the pockets of grace with the I don’t knows while simultaneously preparing for what lies ahead without missing what’s right here, right now. It’s viewing life with perpetually new, curious, and hopeful eyes without losing sight of the shifts in seasons. It’s making the most of the ebbs and flows, the lessons and learnings, and the stings and ecstasies of each cycle.

It’s not autumn, it’s not autumn, the chorus echoes, louder, more insistent, a bit frightened now of the unknown.

Shhh. It’s not autumn, murmurs the elm. But it will be. And with it a time for harvest, for shapeshifting and transition, for deep rest.

Time to imagine and invoke the magical mystery of all we wish to be and become on the other side of winter’s endless nights and inky darkness, for our collective dormant energy to gather strength and focus and desire in anticipation of spring.

Time to wonder what it all means and where we fit into this vast cosmos, to hope like hell for another chance to bloom.

Then, just as all seems lost, like clockwork, without fail or prompting, the light of unadulterated sundrenched days will reappear. And once more, refreshed and buoyant, we’ll have the privilege, the opportunity, the gift, to begin again.