Can Nov. 8 come soon enough? Can we just skip a few days? If the 7th calls in sick, can the 8th come early to take its place?
I’m wracking my brain for ways to make this whole thing move a little faster. Don’t get me wrong, elections are important, but after a while it feels like it’s a little drawn out. And this has been a very political year.
Of course, our state lawmaker positions and our local offices are not what I’m talking about, though they have benefited from the extra attention. This year, so many more young voters, so much more airtime on the news, so many contentious revelations, all have made our democracy a much louder part of our lives.
About half a year ago, I would have said that the surging interest in politics, more widespread than I’ve seen before in a presidential election, was invigorating, indicative of a discerning and increasingly young voter base, or at the very least fresh and interesting. But as we approach the conclusion, the political conversation feels more and more like a sports car stuck in the muddy autumn slush, spinning and spinning but only making deeper ruts (and slinging lots of mud).
Besides, I’m ready to reclaim some of those terms we’re always hearing on the news. I can’t wait until “nominees” is a word that evokes potential Grammy winners, “campaign strategy” starts to sound like how you win at checkers, and the phrase “one long-divided nation” drifts back into sounding like some sort of weird math problem.
Instead, I’m going to turn my focus outside. No, I don’t mean I’m moving to Canada — I mean the outdoors. I’m going to elect to turn my ears and eyes away from ostentatiousness and toward the ephemera of a passing autumn.
I just moved to a new house on the edge of the woods, and once again I am reminded that Juneau is so beautiful, and never more so than at the change of seasons. Three deer, Willow, Bunchberry, and Audrey Hepburn, frequenting the shrubs around the yard transgress the boundary between the wild meadows and the groomed grounds within the property.
The deciduous trees are dropping brown soggy leaves as they turn their energies to prepare for hibernation, with a decisiveness that shows a practiced immunity to the fickle warmth of a Juneau autumn. They know the snow, despite the waffling ambivalence, will eventually stick and winter will fully inherit the weather. Willow and Bunchberry eat these leaves off the ground in an effort to store as much energy as they can as well. And I watch from the window and drink rooibos tea, content that a hot beverage and a house is all I need to stay warm; no need to store, conserve, and collect with the fervor of rest of nature in this season.
If you’re anything like me, enjoying the visuals of nature is as much an exercise in wondering as it is in relaxation. As we know, the interconnectedness of nature means that every change in our seasons is bound to have endless consequences for each species. How will our deer fare come snowfall? Or our berry bushes, who have confusedly budded too early and too late? Will this climatic confusion effect the attitudes and habits of our bears?
When I start wondering like this, I know it’s time for me to read. Great authors in the subject matter include John Muir and Annie Dillard, but if any writer I admire has allowed her curiosity and her love of nature comingle this way, it is Mary Oliver. Although she may inherit her idyllic observations from William Wordsworth, Mary Oliver manages to cultivate her love of nature into intricately complex emotions, and detailed imagery better suited to the tiny hearts of birds and the eyelids of elk than other poets of loftier and grander styles. She is best enjoyed at the changing of seasons, as her poems often invite one to look at nature with a rejuvenated eyesight, ready to notice new moments and experiences.
No, autumn does not have to be the season of cold rain, staring at online Alaska Airlines deals, or even garish political oversaturation. It’s a time when nature is scurrying, hastily winterizing and focusing in on itself. Maybe it would be a good time for us to do the same.
Do your research and make sure to vote in your local and national elections, but then go outside. Take a walk in the frost, get your studded tires on, and try some rooibos and Mary Oliver before the president is chosen and winter sets in.
• Guy About Town appears the first and third Sunday of every month and includes seasonal musings on what changes and what doesn’t in a small town. Guy can be reached at unzicker.music@gmail.com.
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