Heidi Barr

Remembrance The fallen leaf has a song in it one that sings like a prayer, a surrender to a season that fades into another life where ghosts walk, heads held high an acknowledgement of what was keeping company with what could yet be, a holy wild thing right there underfoot.1 Ordinary Collisions: Intersections of Nature & Culture is a reader-supported publication. I appreciate your time and attention. My 12 foot sunflower, just starting to kneel in surrender to the season a few days ago.

I read this passage yesterday, shared from an organization called Friends of the Forest: On the last day of August, the women knew to walk slowly. They knew the day was not an ordinary day. It was the eve of the turning — the last afternoon before September stepped forward with her cooler light and her shorter hours and her long amber shadows falling across the fields. And they knew that on such a day, an Ancient was waiting. She has no other name.

In 2008, I lived in the middle of St. Paul, one street north of University Avenue in the Hamline Midway neighborhood. There was no light rail yet, and I was working my first job as a health coach from an office in Bloomington (which meant commuting to the other side of the metro area). I’d been married for about a year, and my sister-in-law (who was also living in the twin cities) and I decided to go on a camping trip. And that camping trip destination?