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A flock of twenty and seven crows by my count, flew past me and into a passing thunderstorm, on twenty and seven days into September. I guess they call that a murder. And then as the setting sun cast shining rays from behind the mountains and dark storm clouds, came the rainbows, seven, by my count, but too came a sadness, no, more of a melancholiness as I felt my smallness in the vastness of nature and its display of beauty. Yet, also came a feeling of gratefulness to be even a small part of it all, gazing in silent awe, at all this splendor, as another day passes into another night. I was on my way home, but the life living in me, compelled me to a sunset stop, and spend a few my life’s moments, as a participant in something bigger than me, something happening all around me, happening with or without me, something far greater than my humanity, and stand still in the wonder of it all, as a silent observer, and breathe in a calming, a feeling, a hope, an inner healing. 

Snowfall to leaf fall, May to September, I was here, in this very spot, I remember, last May in a spring snow, pondering about forever, now I am back and the Aspen have turned color and begun to fall, I stop and listen to the leaves in the aspen trees shaking in the breeze, I sit on the ground and let go my inner urge to hurry, reminding myself out here time is not a worry. And then I become aware of that familiar feeling of gentleness that comes with sitting still all alone in a wild, out here, where I feel no need to strive, where I am most aware I am alive.  I stand, intending to go, but looking down I see a single fallen leaf and somehow, it connects me to this spot and I cannot leave. I sit back down, I feel an inner touch that holds me in this place, it is soft, I breathe it in and as I do a gentle wind rustles the leaves and I feel a peace that is not about trying, it’s about being. So I just keep sitting as more leaves fall, I watch them, mesmerized, energized deep inside, and that soft touch moves through me from head to toe. Eventually I stand again to move on, and this time I feel ready to go as my mind turns to thoughts of the coming change from leaf fall to snowfall.

Waking from a dream, to sit by a stream, just lazing, sitting in the cool of the morning under a willow, just gazing, at sunlight shimmering through pretty poison ivy, slowing down my inner drive, letting go my need to strive, letting go my inner clock, that never ending ticking tock, replaced by a calming sigh, a moment to stop and turn my gaze to the never ending sky, out here in a wild, to stop thinking, to just sit, alone, and silent, with no need for any unnecessary kinds of intent. And then comes an almost overwhelming sense of connection, to life, to the life in the leaves and branches, in the insects and birds, and yes, even in the turds, in the soil, in the life from the sun, and from the water, to the life in myself, taking a stop today, out here in a wild, where, for me, time goes away, to be a part of this place where all life is one, where individual lives die yet where life itself is never done. 

Sometimes, Zoey, I think, when I dare to think about it at all, I find my mind wandering, wondering, Zoey, what color are your eyes?

And I wonder if you hear my cries.

And I wander farther down a path I maybe shouldn’t dare to go.

Sometimes, Zoey, I wonder what does your laugh sound like?

And now I have gone too far to easily come back,

Sometimes, Zoey, I wish I could have known your hugs and smelled flowers in your hair.

Sometimes, Zoey, to all of us your leaving seems so unfair, makes it hard to even breathe the air, but sometimes, Zoey, I know when I look up into prairie skies you will show me all the the colors in your eyes and in that moment I will listen more carefully and I think sometimes, Zoey I will hear your sweet, sweet voice say, “grampa, it’s okay, I know you love me and for now that is all I need to hear you say.”

And sometimes, Zoey, I dare to think of walking with you hand in hand across the prairie and looking up at the colors in the sky and smelling the flowers and being silly and asking about everything, why?

Yesterday, I hiked up a high mountain path, new to me, I walked alone, in the still, in the thrill, in the quiet, in a deep forest, in a wild, where I thrive, where I am most aware I am alive. I didn’t start with a destination in mind, didn’t know how far I would go, didn’t need to know, but I hiked hoping to reach a mountain view. I began to feel a sense of urgency to reach that view, to reach it before I had gone as far as I could go. Then two hours in, on a bend in the path, I passed a blue spruce tree as I emerged from forest to meadow and there rising to the sky in front of me, was old Mount Sawtooth and in that moment too, I saw my truth, my deep desire to connect with wild nature, alone, observing and listening. After an hour of silence with the mountain in view I knew it was time to turn back, continue my journey, now with no sense of hurry,  just meandering down a path through a forest of spruce and fir and moss, summer hanging by a harebell, stopping to say hello to a little squirrel I called Boo, connecting, feeling satisfied, gratified, walking with some ache in my body at 71, observing how the conifer needles were being touched by the sunlight, listening to the sound of the river’s flow and hearing an invitation to return when aspen leaves glow or in snow falling, when my truth, once again, is calling. 

Fifty years ago, this summer I stood in this field next to my father’s house in Massachusetts, the house I grew up in. It was the summer of 1976, and my father took this picture of me next to this tall sunflower I had grown that summer in his garden.  I was 21 years old and about to leave home to go to Oklahoma State University to study agriculture. My head was full of dreams, dreams of changing the world by ending hunger for the hungry, dreams of winning a gold medal in the marathon.  I was so young, so naive, so innocent but also full of heart and determination to follow my dreams.  It was a poignant moment.  Now 50 years later I find myself standing by a sunflower in our garden in Colorado. In all those moments are so many memories and stories of a life lived. It’s close to an overwhelming feeling to reflect on and remember all those moments, memories and stories. 

Last week of August, working in the morning sun, cutting back willows encroaching along the north pasture fence, near where momma bear and two cubs hang out, I can hear them rustling in the thickets as I work, a bit disturbed by my presence. Next week is September, I can feel it coming. I feel it in sunflowers fading, in sweet corn stalks drying, in butternut squash forming, in the Fall garden I planted yesterday, in fresh acorns I see in an oak tree, in native prairie grass seed heads and I feel it at the start of each day in the later dawn and at the end of each day as dusk falls earlier.  It is a comforting feeling to me, as summer is abating, I feel it in cooler morning air, I look forward to the coming changes, when summer slowly passes, as autumn slowly approaches with its golden leaves and frosted touches and all of nature rearranges. 

It is hard to feel the changes in the air, when it is just another hot day in August, when even the wild sumac is wilting from the heat and the dry, when even the lambsquarter is drooping, and there is a haze from wildfire smoke in the sky. There is the feeling of tired, the magic of Spring is long gone, blossoms are spent, the green grass is brown and bent, seeds drop to the ground, time, to me, feels like it is passing slower. I am waiting out the summer, one day at a time. But even in the heat today, I am also aware the earth still spins on its axis, still orbits the sun, the moon still moves through its phases, the path ahead is set. The spiders still spin their webs, the young birds have learned to fly, every morning is still a new day, the Nuttall’s Sunflower are still blooming as usual in August, so after all, it is only just another hot August day, it will not stay.

6:55 am, August 20, 2026, 60 degrees, sitting in a breath of dawn air, in my rocking chair, waiting. I am waiting for the sun to shine on a sunflower in our home garden, and at 71, waiting for death too, not in a morbid mood kind of way, just waiting in the reality of death coming as sure as the sun is rising, yet still breathing every breath of life with joy. I am still looking forward to the all the life to come, enjoying each bloom of a new flower, each bee or butterfly that visits, each new snowflake falling, each songbird calling, and my grandchildren’s laughs and knowing there are still more trails to follow, more wilds to wander, more wilderness miles, more snows to set my face into, more smiles. So, this morning as I rock back and forth in my chair, pondering my life’s path ahead, how I choose to embrace it, choose to face it, is to measure life not in years and especially not in remembered blunders, but to try to revel, as much as I am able, in being alive and immerse myself in its still endless life wonders. 

Last night I lay in bed, in the dark, my thoughts turning to where I would want to wander in nature this morning, I pondered my destination, after some consideration, a place came to mind, a place without a name but I knew that was it, without hesitation.  So, in the dawn, I was gone, using muscle and bones, walking from a trailhead under fir tree cones, where deer do suddenly appear, or a black squirrel with tufted ear,  going to a place where I know I will likely here the caws of a crow,  where time as measured in seconds, minutes, hours, months or years, does not exist, where the mood is gentle and there’s no pace that will insist, where the quiet pervades my existence without insistence, where I can breathe a sigh of relief, as I lie on the ground and marvel at the beauty of a fallen red leaf, even though it is only August in its late teens, and it comes to me as I walk, to this place, with no name, it will now be known to me as Without Hesitation.