Scenes of autumn

Vignettes about the solar eclipse, herbal medicine, the coming winter, and other natural phenomena

I

Somewhere in the house is a large fly, the size of a shelled peanut, buzzing back and forth between the skylights and my large window, seeking escape. How it got into the house was the mundane mystery of the day—likely when Michael opened the door this morning to leave for work, or when I did to sweep off collected dust and hair. I often catch the moment an insect takes advantage of our comings and goings—that flash of black or brown in the corner of the eye—but this one slipped through unnoticed, almost as though it appeared spontaneously behind the blinds, buzzing to life. I am waiting for the opportunity to trap it between my palms.

II

After a long, brutal summer, our mini-split is finally able to take a break. Days of catching and wiping off the unstoppable condensation, especially during those three-digit afternoons, are temporarily over. Now, we have been enjoying the privilege of cooling the house by simply opening the windows, and, in the evenings, closing them to keep warm. I’ve begun retrieving warm clothes from my travel suitcase at the loft, which serves as our makeshift storage box, and storing my summer wardrobe in their place. Wool skirts, silk scarves, and light jackets in lieu of my airy cotton shorts and sleeveless boxy tees. Soon it will be too cold; by then, in between shivers, I am sure I will long for summer.

III

In the freewheeling opening of Nocilla Lab, Agustín Fernández Mallo (trans. Thomas Bunstead) writes:

[…] my entire life had been a series of getting projects off the ground and knocking them down again, being a rock climber, being a drummer, being a writer, being a physicist/jack-of-all-trades, master of none—I think it’s fair to say I’m an all-around average sort of person, something I can never be grateful enough for because, after all, it has allowed me to explore these many different environments, to orbit all kinds of different things, there’s nothing worse than the specialist genius […]

At 26, I still feel like a child building sandcastles at the beach. In the distance I see people I admire assembling, with a clarity of vision, monuments of permanence: a medical career aspired for since they were five, the promise of an impressive oeuvre, a family who could want for nothing, a passion for animals turned into a lifelong calling. I’m not quite there. Like Mallo, I think I am an average sort of person with the privilege to dip mediocre toes into multiple things. A love-hate relationship with corporate marketing, a brief stint in fashion, exploratory courses in both biology and nutrition science, forays into yoga and aerial arts, enthusiasm for wine, an unshakeable affinity for divination and poetry. These are my many little sandcastles, fragile and beautiful.

Maybe this is what the average person is, a sandcastle architect, a specialist in creating only what does not last—and yet grains remain in my hair, in the folds of my clothes, in the gaps of my shoes. Some mornings, I even feel them in my eyes.

IV

Is this a Vicks plant, A— gasped, reaching to pinch a leaf off a cascading vine growing from one of the aquaponic beds in the greenhouse of the museum we both work at. It is, here, smell it! The familiar menthol smell reminded me of those days I skipped school when I was sick, the tender skin of my nostrils shiny with ointment as I ate my bowl of instant noodles. Despite the discomfort of illness, the change in rhythm it necessitated—staying home on a weekday while everyone else left for work or school, eating what I normally wasn’t given—thrilled me. It felt like a brief departure from the normal stream of time.

Soon the offered leaf withered between my thumb and forefinger. Turning her attention now to a hanging plant basket, A— wondered out loud when the ferns—they look sad—were last soaked. She observed the greenhouse like a library, her eyes scanning the plants for something interesting or recognizable.

You must have a garden, I remarked. She lit up, I do, but I used to have a much bigger one. Her description, brought to life by animated hand gestures, conjured an image of beautiful wildness—a small yard sprawling with plants in repurposed, makeshift pots like old wheelbarrows, tires, barrels. She used to have a Vicks plant, she said, but it didn’t survive the previous winter. You know, these repel mosquitoes.

I learned she loved herbal medicine: It was what I grew up with. Treating everyday malaises with the herbs around you. She then recounted a story about how, as a child, she’d occasionally stay over with an aunt and her four cousins. Out of the five children under the same roof, she and one cousin were particularly playful. Bursting with energy. In the evenings, her aunt would then hold a tea party for A— and her cousin. We had the cute little cups and everything, not like the large mugs we drink from now! I imagined these giddy girls sitting at the dining table with dainty ceramic cups, maybe a small dish with biscuits, the light above them warm and yellow against the darkness of the evening visible through the windows. I know I would have enjoyed that. In retrospect, she realized, what was a beloved, fun ritual turned out to also be mission to get them to sleep. We were drinking chamomile tea.

V

The first few eclipses humans ever witnessed must have been horrific.

I saw a solar eclipse for the first time yesterday. Though it was only an annular eclipse, which meant the moon only obscured the center of the sun rather than fully covering it, the shadow it cast was already eerie.

At around 10:30, it looked as though something took a bite of the sun like it were a cookie. It made sense why many myths, like that of bakunawa, explained eclipses as a kind of devouring. Minute by minute more of the sun “disappeared” until only a sliver, then a ring, was left. By then the light seemed to possess a strange quality, daylight wrapped in a veil of dark, and the wind began to feel cooler. Between rustling leaves the eclipse was projected on the ground as little crescents. I imagined the annular eclipse would seem like dusk, like a gradual fading of light, but it was something else entirely. With tiny beads of my birthstone on my ears, I whispered wishes and prayers into the strange air.

In a few months, central Texas will, by rare fortune, once again bear witness to a total solar eclipse. The last time a total solar eclipse was visible in Texas was over 600 years ago—to be alive here and now is a boring fact suddenly made extraordinary by this astronomical event.

VI

Other natural phenomena—

When cornering an otherwise harmless animal, do not expect tenderness. Expect to see its claws or teeth.

Survival is a struggle for life based on an assessment of present conditions. Strictly speaking, responding to hypotheticals, which may be considered foresight, a gamble, or a moral position, is not an act of survival.

Trauma is real. Trauma is inevitable. What we do with it—the patterns we believe, the hurt we inflict, the people we accept or reject—is what matters.

To the human body that thrives on routine, disruption to the status quo feels like a threat. Apocalyptic, as eclipses once did. When zooming out, however, we gain a new perspective. See now what this understanding can do.

Free Palestine.