I woke to the sound of dripping, and my heart sank. Outside rain joined with the wet snow, weighing down bushes, dragging branches to the ground. The delicate pictures of the previous night, with each twig carrying its own little blanket of white, had run like a child’s watercolor. Big globs of snow stuck to the bushes, melting to form lakes in the yard.

By midday most of the trees were bare of snow. The ground still carried a deceptive layer of white. But when I stepped onto it, my boots sank into puddles of water underneath. And even that remaining snow was fast giving way to bare dirt and flattened grass.

How fleeting beauty can be! How important to revel in it when it appears, because we never know how long it might stay. I should have hiked through the snow last night, soaking in the purity of it, laughing like a child as it blew into my face. Perhaps I would have been tired this morning, but it would have been worth it. Rejoice in the moment; it is a blessing from above.

The chickadees are especially friendly and easy-going. The chestnut-backed seem a bit friendlier than the black-capped, but neither is particularly shy. They can get a bit demanding when I don’t keep up with my feeding chores. But when the feeder is filled with good, black oil sunflowers, the chickadees flit about in the dogwood tree where the feeder hangs. One will zip in, grab a seed, and fly to a perch nearby to eat it. Then another swoops in. They patiently take turns, each picking up a single seed and eating it before coming back for more. Occasionally two or three will land on the feeder at the same time, but no one gets pushy.

The juncos aren’t quite so obliging. They don’t like to share the feeder, particularly with other species. They flap their wings at interlopers and seemed annoyed that others would want to move in while they are eating. Still they are models of courtesy compared to starlings. Starlings will share if they have to, but you can’t make them like it. They squawk and flap about on the suet feeder, greedily grabbing big mouthfuls of food.

However, for a true show of dominance, the squirrel is definitely tops. He’ll hang by his tail over the seed feeder, gobbling down as much as he can before he loses his grip on the branch above and has to drop off. Or curl his well-fed body around the suet feeder so no bird has a chance of sneaking in.

And meanwhile the polite little chickadees eat their seeds one at a time, cheerfully sharing and enjoying life, one moment at a time.

Was it really a week ago you arrived? Why does now become yesterday so quickly? Christmas trees with glittering lights. Scones and fudge and decorated cookies. Cold sunshine and Oregon rain. Laughter amidst the warmth of family. Learning a new game where you are the master and we, your parents, mere apprentices. Chicken katsu with curry, artistically presented. You have grown into a strong and confident man, and our hearts glow with pride.

I drive slowly home, to be greeted by empty Christmas stockings and a quiet house. To embrace a husband whose heart also aches. Sweet memories have been added to my storehouse, and I will rejoice in those. Rejoice in love and family and faith—and all the blessings you have given me, often without even knowing. One day soon, those tomorrows will bring us together again. And that will be a wonderful day.

 When I entered our shed—an open-sided structure with a hard, plastic roof—drops of water fell from the ceiling like the beginning of an indoor rain storm. Funny to feel it raining under cover, but not outside!

 I walked down to our little woods, as the cold nipped at my toes and fingers. Frost decorated the blackberry bushes, the ferns, even a tiny mushroom growing in the path.

 The leaves are late to fall this year. According to the television meteorologist, scientists believe the wet, cool July and warmer-than-usual September and early October caused the leaves to hold more sugar and stay longer on the trees. It also makes for brighter colors than usual, something I have really noticed. It has been a spectacular autumn.

 Now the frost comes, as autumn winds down toward winter. And we enjoy the beauty of this season, as Earth continues its journey around the Sun, ever-changing, yet ever the same.

Maple leaves on the path

The leaves are rapidly falling from the trees, and heavy wind is predicted for tonight, which will likely strip a bunch more off. So I thought I had better post these pictures of leaves in my yard before they are out of date.

Frost-edged azalea

The leaves seem to be falling late this year. Autumn colors have lasted longer than usual, which has been a great treat. But now they are coming down quickly with the wind and the rain, causing the yard to look different every morning.

Dogwood leaves

Lots of reds right now, but still some yellows and bits of green. And in the background, the evergreens  stand, changing little.

Chestnut-backed chickadee and underside of red-breasted nuthatch

The birds are hungry today. I barely got the suet feeder hung back up before they came swarming in, filling the dogwood tree with their chirps and twitters. First three or four chickadees–chestnut-backed and black-capped. Then a red-breasted nuthatch, floowed by a pair of kinglets.

Red-breasted nuthatch

I rushed inside to get my camera. The kinglets had left, but new birds kept arriving–a song sparrow, a couple house finches, a flicker, a scrub jay, juncos. They swept in and out of the tree and the feeders faster than my camera could catch them.

Black-capped chickadee

Grab a sunflower seed and fly off to eat it; peck a bit of suet, then zip away. In and out of the autumn-colored dogwood they went, as my frantic camera clicked. Hungry birds getting ready for the winter.

I had to take a few pictures of the Sacramento River. My father grew up along that river, although not in Sacramento itself, and spent many hours fishing in it, bringing home much-appreciated food for dinner, back in those Depression Days. He tells of the time after a flood, when he and his brothers discovered a rowboat washed up on the bank. They had no idea where it might have come from, but happily claimed it as their own. From that day forth, their fishing expeditions were not confined to the river banks.

Back in my hotel room, I looked out at rush hour traffic, glad not to be in it. Whenever I woke in the night, I could hear cars in the background, a dull continuous hum. I enjoyed my visit to Sacramento, especially the time spent with relatives and with coworkers who are also friends. But I also enjoyed coming home to Oregon, to my quiet little place where the only sounds to disturb my sleep are the occasional barking dog or yipping coyote. As they say, there’s no place like home!

After a few gray, rainy days, the sun burst out on Wednesday. Perfect timing, as my brother was in town, and we all (brother, husband, and I) wanted to go hiking. So out the Columbia Gorge we headed, winding along the old highway past Multnomah Falls, with its usual crowds, on to Horsetail Falls, where the hike begins.

We started at Lower Horsetail Falls. I watched a car stop in the middle of the road in front of the falls. A young man hopped out, struck a pose, then jumped back in the car after the picture was snapped. Silly tourists.

Like most hikes around here, this one began with an uphill climb. However, the breeze blew cool and refreshing, giving me energy to keep going, even when the menfolk disappeared around the bend. I enjoyed the lush woods, the ferns growing thick on the hillsides, and the tall trees shading the path. I had fun testing my new camera, a Canon Rebel DSLR T3i, on sights big and small.

After a few switchbacks, we came to a fairly level stretch, a nice place to catch my breath and watch the sunlight flickering through the maples. Soon Upper Horsetail Falls loomed up ahead through the trees. The trail went right behind the falls—what fun!

Next we descended toward the Oneonta Gorge, crossed by a footbridge. We paused to stare down into the deep canyon and at another falls pouring through the narrow banks. Then back up again, out of the gorge and uphill for another mile to reach Triple Falls, a picture-perfect place for lunch. Sunshine, a cooling breeze, a crashing waterfall: what more could we ask for?

It was all downhill after that, an easy ramble to the old highway, a walk along the road and through a tunnel back to Horsetail Falls. A beautiful day for a beautiful hike!

We (husband and I) only had two and a half days for the camping trip, so I honed in on areas close to home. We settled on Paradise Creek Campground on the Wind River, about twenty miles north of Carson, Washington. We found ourselves a big, well-shaded site where river sounds could lull us to sleep in our tent. Facilities included outhouses and a hand pump for water, but we like primitive, so it was perfect.

We woke early our first full day there, eager to get out hiking before the temperature rose too high. We drove a few miles back to the Falls Creek trail. It was an easy hike, the book said, and so beautiful that you wouldn’t even notice the small rise in elevation. Well, that wasn’t exactly true. We did notice the climbing trail, which was a bit steep in places, but we also noticed the bigleaf maples and cedars towering above us, the graceful curve of the vine maple branches, and the freshness of the air. We saw the changing character of Falls Creek, splashing loudly over rocks in places, settling into deep, dark pools other places. We felt like wanderers in Middle Earth as we stopped beneath trees heavy with moss to admire the busy stream.

Then we reached the falls. Falls Creek was, indeed, aptly named. The creek cascaded down basalt cliffs lined with moss, thundering into the deep pool below, forming two distinct falls. Mist sprayed out, cool and refreshing after that uphill climb. Wavelets splashed against the dark, always-wet rocks at pool’s edge. Maidenhair ferns clung to the cliff in small patches. The late morning sun stretched long fingers into the canyon, highlighting the moss and edging the trees with light.

The roar of the falls drowned out all background sounds. Were birds singing? Planes passing overhead? I had no way of telling. We sat there for quite some time, drinking in the serenity. I took lots of pictures, too, trying out my new camera. I tried to fit the beauty of the place into a small rectangular frame. Success could only be partial.

The way back was a pleasant downhill jaunt with time to visit hidden pools and bright cascades, time to enjoy the wonder of a place I definitely hope to visit again.

 The message was, basically, that the church is an oasis of sorts, where we find spiritual refreshment. However, we can’t live in the oasis. We have to go back out into the desert to live, work, and help others, bringing them also to the oasis.

 That made me think about the oases in my life. Certainly, for me at least, the church is an oasis. I feel revived when I leave Sunday services, inspired to be a better person, and encouraged in my sometimes feeble attempts to serve. But church is not my only oasis. Home is another. When my children were small, home could be a chaotic place, but it was still a place where I could be myself. Now the nest has emptied, and home is a relaxing place, where I think and write, or put on loud music and dance, should the mood strike me.

 Natural places are also oases for me. I love getting out in the woods, walking on the beach, watching the sun set over a lake. The singing of birds and the rustling of leaves in the breeze fill me with peace. I learned long ago that I need my woods time to survive emotionally—and perhaps spiritually, as well.

 But then there’s the second part of the sermon. We can’t live in the oasis. I might like to be a hermit at times, but that’s not what I’m here for. I believe I’m here to help others—through encouragement, through practical gestures such as bringing food to a neighbor, through my writing, through the whole way I live my life. And so I must remember that those oases are not my goal, but simply way stations where I can renew my strength to continue the journey—even when that journey leads me through dry and dusty places.