A Lesson in Leaves

When you live on three acres of hardwoods, the life cycle of the leaf begins to take on a new significance. For every beautiful leaf up on the trees, carries the hard truth that eventually it will be on the ground. Unless I am diligent, there is a distinct possibility of becoming 'leafed in'. Drifts and drifts of them all over the paths, the drive, the deck. Even with that due diligence, there is usually need of a major raking day not only in the Fall but then again in the Spring.

This past weekend was the Spring clean up day. My younger brother was on hand, to attend to what our family calls the 'honey do' list. All homeowners know there is always plenty on that sheet of paper. My job was the leaf clean up.

Walking out into the yard and surveying the drive, the back path, the deck I had a heavy heart. We all know that feeling. Just standing there thinking of the huge amount of work ahead, the job itself seemed overwhelming. Lots of sighs, lots of walking around on my part, until finally I could put it off no longer. I gathered up the rake, the tarp, the blower, put on my gloves and got started.

The first hour was hard going. Complaining muscles, a cranky spirit, a sense of defeat over whether or not I could even make a difference threatened to swamp me, but I kept on working. Every once in a while I looked out across the yard and could see my brother climbing up and down the ladder working on the drive lights and then later down on the ground digging up the control boxes as he searched for the short in the line. Gritty work at best. The morning wore on. We kept working.

Sometime during the morning, my cranky spirit began ease. Blowing and raking the leaves, trimming back the shrubs and then hauling them out of the courtyard on a tarp, took on a meditative quality. The initial despair I felt about the job began to fade. The constant chatter in my brain slacked off. We kept on working. When lunch time came, the "honey do" list had dwindled as had the leaves. We plotted out the rest of the day as we caught up on the family news.

Late in the afternoon, the magical moment arrived when we had finished. By that point, a deep mellowness had settled into my body. We were both so tired as we put away our tools and climbed into the truckster. We had loaded it with pieces of tree trunk to use as markers for the drive. Placing them was our last official act of the day. Even though we were both completely worn out, as we rode along the drive, and took in the the huge improvement one hard days' work could bring, we became almost giddy. We laughed and joked over the placement of the trunk pieces and called it a day. There is such sweet satisfaction in being able to see the results of hard work.

Later that night as I climbed into bed I thought of how so much of what we face in our everyday lives feels like a never ending 'honey do' list and unending piles of leaf banks. The problems of the world are so huge, they easily dwarf our hopefulness that there can ever be a solution to them. Each one of us has our own individual challenges with our jobs, families, responsibilities. It is a heavy load to carry. It is so easy to feel overwhelmed and despondent over whether anything we do can make a difference. But then I thought about what had happened to me that day. I did my share of sighing and complaining but eventually I picked up the rake and my gloves and got started. We both stopped for a break when we needed it, we encouraged each other, talked over the best plan for this job or that one, and we kept on working. At the end of the day, we had something to feel a sense of accomplishment about.

I am wondering now if there is a lesson in the leaves. Could it be that when the world around us is most confusing, when we feel the most vulnerable and ineffective, that might be the time to remember the value of a good day of raking. Maybe that is the time to go home and start cleaning out our closets, giving what we don't need to goodwill, recycling. Perhaps that's the time to wash the windows, straighten our cupboards, vacuum behind the sofa or rearrange the furniture. Maybe when we feel the most powerless that is the time to activate our ability to physically do things. I am beginning to believe that the act of doing, accomplishing small things that change our personal environment, serves as a reminder that we are powerful creatures. No matter how big the problems may seem, we can get our rake out and start raking. The work itself may bring sore muscles and weary bodies, but it's a good weariness. It demonstrates to us that we can make a difference. It helps us remember deep down into our bodies, that yes, what we do, matters.

The people I love the best
jump into work head first
without dallying in the shallows
and swim off with sure strokes almost out of sight.
They seem to become natives of that element,
the black sleek heads of seals
bouncing like half-submerged bulls.

I love people who harness themselves, an ox to a heavy cart,
who pull like water buffalo, with massive patience,
who strain in the mud and the muck to move things forward,
who do what has to be done, again and again.

I want to be with people who submerge
in the task, who go into the fields to harvest
and work in a row and pass the bags along,
who are not parlor generals and field deserters
but move in a common rhythm
when the food must come in or the fire be put out.

The work of the world is common as mud.
Botched, it smears the hands, crumbles to dust.
But the thing worth doing well done
has a shape that satisfies, clean and evident.
Greek amphoras for wine or oil,
Hopi Vases that held corn, are put in museums
but you know they were made to be used.
The pitcher cries for water to carry
and a person for work that is real.

Marge Piercy, To Be of Use