An Autumn Time of Year  by Ludy Goodson

It’s Time

It’s time to dance in the wind, walk under the stars, and nestle into cool moments.

It’s time to sort through our lives as we sort through our closets, shifting from light and bright, to cozy and dark.

It’s time to curl into reflections as we climb under our comforters and blankets.

It’s time to wallow in our risks and our challenges, our mistakes and our achievements.

It’s time to take stock in what has been, neither with regret nor loneliness, but with the same delight we have in the golden autumn leaves falling to the ground and crunching playfully beneath our feet.

It’s time to sing to the joy of the winter in our lives, while keeping our warm robes close around our skins.

Let Me Begin

Let me begin to rearrange and catch the flow, to redirect it, to pulse with stronger energy and vitality, to wash over the pain of those who scream and shout and bomb, to stop the stream of blood and the trail of ants, by some small redirection. May it be a prayer, a wish, somehow transformed into the power of calm, of peace, of hope, and a way to help. 

Let me begin to see the path for me in this hope, some way to move the wind, the chi of love and forgiveness, to sail across the continents in a sea of music, of synchronous chords, with more self-direction than antagonism, the dissonance of hatred and anger squelched to vibrations so low that they can no longer be heard by man, woman, boy, or girl, any place and for all time.

Autumn Breeze

Ask about the autumn breeze flowing through my bedroom window and I’ll tell you about how the coolness flows over my face and outstretched arms and legs.

Urgently, as if I could not live without the air it brings, I breathe in sweet fragrance of the light rain and leaves.

Taking time to hear the round bamboo pieces, bumping one against the other and the whirling wings of the red windmill in the garden, I wake slowly.

Under the roll of the bamboo and the whirr of the windmill, I make my own private melody, long before the bright chime of the Zen clock by my bedside.

My composing, my mythical lyrics pour out and I greet the golden hardwood floors with humming.

Not a single bone moans in this gentle wake up call from the breeze in my backyard.

Autumn Leaf

Golden, fleshy swirl fallen, its tip curled up to the sky.

Rising veins reaching out to both sides.

Brown spots, its signs of old age and approaching death.

Shiny topside, looking almost like springtime.

Flecks of green not yet forsaking its life.

Still, never again to sway in the path of an autumn wind.

Pancakes for Breakfast

It was one of those nine-year-old mornings. My brother, who was almost eight, was with me. Somehow we had an invitation to breakfast at someone else’s house. This was brand new.  We did not have a clue about the meaning of breakfast—at least not in the morning, and surely not on a weekend. What would it mean?

Well, for sure, it would keep us out of trouble, for out of the house, meant being out of sight and sound, and no one would yell at us. Our mom worked the night shift as a carhop and our stepfather worked the night shift as a taxicab driver, except for those occasional meetings with the union during the day. So, any small noise was unwelcome during their sleeping time, which meant, of course, that the two of us on school day schedules were most unwelcome.

But this was a Saturday and not being off to school, an adventure at someone else’s home would keep us safe from harm. The other kids invited us in. The mother was like a white aunt Jemima, chubby, round, soft, and gentle in her voice and movement. We hadn’t seen this before. She told us she was making pancakes. We’d never had pancakes, not regular pancakes, only potato pancakes.

The dining nook had a rectangular table and benches on each side. The table, benches, and surrounding windows were white. The place was bright and clean. The stacks of pancakes were piled high on white earthenware plates. We layered the hot pancakes with butter and syrup.

We were safe and well fed, and a bit puzzled. This was the way of another family. We wondered if other families were like this, too. Did they have pancakes for breakfast?

Now, at age 54, pancakes still are among my favorite breakfast meals, free of shouting, free of anger, free of fear—warm and buttery and safe.

Rainbows over Rivers…

Rainbows over rivers after rainstorms are like random droplets of joy sprinkled through our lives. The light in my father’s eyes was like that, twinkling with myriad rainbows from the flash of sunlight bouncing up from the river when he went out on the old boat to check his trout lines.

Light moved across the river with the rhythm of the boat rocking in the water, like the slow movement of my father’s hands and the words he was slow to speak—spare, true, never any waste. Rainbows over rivers are like my father’s eyes.