The One Essential Condition for Reveling in the Stick Season

One of my grandson’s favorite musicians is folk-pop artist Noah Kahan who wrote a song called the “Stick Season.” Kahan grew up in Vermont, one of the northeastern states that borders my own home state of New York, so the stick season is one I know well. It’s now. November.

Many of the trees have shed their leaves, the brilliant colors of autumn scattered on the ground or tossed in the strong winds coming with Canadian cold fronts. The stick season means shorter hours of daylight, bringing out the boots, hats, gloves, and scarves; extra time spent in the morning scraping snow off my windows. The stick season is dull in comparison to the preceding months when the cornfields are bursting with golden ears and the landscape is cloaked in green.

Yet, the season of bare limbs and shorter days comes with its own gifts. When the leaves fall, there is more sky to see. On clear mornings, the azure color is startling and even more captivating over a barren landscape. Not long ago, I was driving my grandson across the state where he now lives and an eagle appeared, its majestic wings spread wide as it soared on the wind current. I couldn’t help shouting out in surprise—rare glimpses of nature’s regal creatures calls for expressions of delight—even more so when most wildlife has taken shelter deep in the woods or flown off to warmer climates. Grace can be a lone eagle in a grey November sky if we’re open to receiving such glimpses.

Receptivity is the key.

In the warmer months when I spend more time outdoors, it’s easy to stand in stillness, absorbing the fragrances, colors, and sounds that overwhelm my senses. I’ve learned to know the seasons through my nose, ears, and eyes: the chirping robins and blossoming tulips of spring; summer’s freshly cut grass and golden-faced sunflowers; the crunch of autumn leaves and bonfires.

With the chill winds of November, I tend to huddle indoors. The land is what I can see out of my windows—the frost-covered meadow now wilted and brown; leafless saplings against a somber sky. But that, I know, is laziness on my part. When I take the time to be attentive, I catch eagles in flight. I notice the tiny rabbit paw prints in fresh snow on my sidewalk and the bright red holly berries on the bush outside my office. Brisk winds whistle over my rooftop announcing a change in the weather and if I close my eyes, I can pick up the scent of pine needles.

The stick season reminds me that every season, not just the blooming months, invite me to read the land—a contemplative practice of immersing in nature and reflecting on what attracts us, calls to our heart, and gently coerces us to gather insights from within.

The eagle captured my attention. High in a cloudless sky, it had a perspective of distance I didn’t have. A long view. With fields now plowed under, it could more easily spot prey. Fragile tree limbs downed during fall and winter storms could be scooped up to reinforce its nest. What value did the season of sticks have for me?

Without summer’s distractions to go out and play, I have time to review the writing that’s been neglected and see it from a different perspective. I will tend to self-nourishing essentials like more rest and reinforcing my spiritual nest with books waiting in my Kindle app. I’ll gaze out my window and read the cold, muted land with open eyes and listen to winter’s voice with ears that are awake, words inspired by poet e. e. cummings who gave thanks to God for “most this amazing day”—a day of joyously imbibing creation whether green and succulent, or brown and spindly. Each day invites revelry; gifts us with wonder. Look, nature calls. Behold the glory of the evanescent before it passes.