Autumn is arriving here in Boston, MA.
Summer is ebbing, and cooler air is flowing into our neighborhood.
In the morning I sit on our back porch, wearing a hoodie until the sun warms everything up.
I listen for sounds from the natural world — today a blue jay — competing with the sounds of cars and buses and trucks and motorcycles on nearby streets.
I find camping to be a terrific reminder of many important things — how little water one needs to wash dishes, for example. Or wash one’s hands. Or take a shower.
The campground has cabins with sinks and toilets and showers, but the sinks have taps which automatically shut off after about three seconds — a simple and very effective reminder to use water more mindfully — and the showers are activated by quarters (25 cents for three minutes of hot water).
And in upstate New York I simply jumped — except for the times when my feisty nephew Ryder pushed me — into the lake each morning and then scrubbed with Dr. Bronner’s soap and a washcloth.
We had no radio, no TV, and no internet.
We awoke early — due to birds singing their morning songs — and went to bed early, too.
Sometimes we all sang together after dinner — songs written by the Beatles being the most popular selections.
I wrote new songs for most of each day — happily holed up with my ukulele and laptop computers and rhyming dictionary — and then joined other family members for a swim in the late afternoon.
One of the most powerful part of camping for me is being reminded of the ebb and flow of life.
We see it at the beach.
The waves flow in and out at the water’s edge.
The tide rises and falls, sweeping the ocean shore clean of footprints twice a day — while revealing (and then concealing) sand bars, rocks, shells, crabs, sea weed, drift wood, and tiny jumping sand fleas.
Back at camp, we see neighboring tent sites fill with new arrivals and then empty at the end of the week.
What was a colorful array of tents and coolers and towels and bikes becomes a community of pine trees, a picnic table, some squirrels, and lots of open air.
I find it a very poignant reminder of mortality — my own as well as the mortality of all the people and places and animals and plants I love here on planet earth.
This feeling of mortality seeped into the song I wrote, “Under My Umbrella,” which is embedded at the top of the page.
It seems to fit with the days getting shorter as we approach the autumnal equinox.
Deep breath in.
Deep breathe out.
Thanks for reading…and listening.