Sweet Potato Haircut

Yesterday I went for a woods walk with a friend in the cold autumn. The forest was in the height of its changing, and I couldn’t keep my eyes from the enchanting canopy of color, vibrantly and briefly sheltering the world with the warm glow of transition, of processes slowing, of photosynthesis stopping, of change. The air was fresh and cold and felt healthy inside my body, and I imagined my cells rejoicing in the pure oxygen fresh from the woody source. I imagined the muscles of my legs relishing the rushes of blood and the contraction of movement, and my being felt a sense of returning, of grounding, of intrinsic belonging.

And as we rounded the turn back toward the parking lot, where my car was waiting with its suggestions of return to manic humanity, of rush and grind and noise, and we saw an old man paused on the trail in front of us. His purple and white windbreaker was flapping slightly in the breeze, his head craned upward and his walking stick hovering in the air– an image of presence, and of paying attention. As we neared, he turned his windblown face to us and said loudly, and smiling, “all you can do is gawk around, today.”