Perspective Retrospect

The porch off my bedroom in Vermont is two thousand feet above sea level. A canopy of peak autumnal leaf change lies below, much as I imagine the tropical jungle’s stretch of green spreads beneath a climber in the Amazon. From my vantage point on the porch, this lava tapestry, shaded and nuanced in hundreds of hews from ‘earthy clay’ to ‘sunset sky’, flows evenly as far as I can see in a smooth, continuous undulation of molten topaz. Unlike the grey billows beneath a plane at altitude, clouds of autumn leaves blaze with nature’s complete palette. Waking up on a mountain in Vermont in the first week of October is an unexpected, surreal thrill.

There doesn’t seem to be a break anywhere in that lush carpet of gold, except perhaps on the horizon, where the Worcester Mountain Range draws a soft purple edge. It’s impossible not to stand rooted to the spot, mesmerized by the harmony and rhythm of it all. Suddenly, a few wayward, beige leaves swing back and forth, up and down, with no particular beat or place to go; a modern dance in a classic setting. They remind me of homeless snowflakes; the big ones floating aimlessly down to earth, and then spiraling suddenly upward caught on a draft, then from side to side, searching in vain for their comrades. They swirl around singly and in pairs, seesawing past me in oddly disconnected bursts. And that’s the strangest thing of all. Their sudden appearance from above is what catches my attention.

The dance they do originates somewhere high up.  How could that be? I’ve seen the trees with all their leaves spread below. Looking out along the ridge of Mt. Mansfield, the deciduous tree line goes up almost to the top of its 4,396 foot summit; the highest peak in Vermont. How could I have forgotten those trees above me? Did I think my current vantage point was the only one? I was instantly embarrassed, reminded of another time and view producing much the same reaction. To no surprise, it was also in Vermont and also inspired my writing. Over two years ago, just a month after my blog was launched, I wrote a piece on perspective. It drew on the same mountain range for inspiration. Nature has a way of teaching us the same lessons, over and over, so I decided to go back to see what I’d learned.

Much of the subject matter of that ‘Perspective’ wandered in different directions from my thoughts this time; but it was the conclusion that pulled me up short. In that essay of July, 2010, I was content to admit my guilt at being caught in the scene around me, excluding any attention to what was behind and in front, over as well as under me. I wish all that mattered is my “right now” I said at the end of it. Now, two years later, I know that my right now is all that matters; not just intellectually but inherently. All I have left of that nostalgia for things out of my view in the past or the future is a vague reminder that jumps up with a jolt of unnecessary guilt when I find my perspective has become so present. Old habits hang around, but with effort, eventually lose their hold.

How wonderful it is to know I’ve grown and learned things at my age. There’s no more should have, could have in my vocabulary now; no more regret for things unrecognized or undone. The view from my porch, so far above this beautiful canopy of trees, reminds me that being utterly involved in the fiery scene to the exclusion of everything else is exactly where I’m meant to be. In retrospect, I think I saw this change in life-perspective coming, but the only thing that matters now is being here.

By Sidney S. Stark

 

 

 

 

 

 

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