When the Lilacs Bloom in October

On possibility over panic

It all started on the heels of a winter that never quite got cold enough to claim its season’s name—we paddled the canoe on Christmas, three days after our neighbor lost his home to fire, flames licking the sky through a warm fog, a foretelling perhaps, of what was to come when the calendar turned to 2024.

It was the year I lost a job I liked and was good at, again, history repeating the parts I would have preferred to leave in the past, and the search for something new stretched on for months.

It was the year war continued to rage and bombs continued to fall on innocents, children, parents, friends, healers, storytellers—so many, the names of lives lost stretching into a river of loss.

It was the year multitudes of Americans tuned into “America’s National Pastime” while “swallowing a spoonful of racism as Chiefs fans played Indian”¹ and million dollar Jesus ads encouraged us to love our neighbor.

It was the year two hurricanes made landfall within a month, and 45 inches of rain swept away whole towns, remaking shorelines and filling lakes with debris as hollers and neighborhoods gave way to nature’s fury.

It was the year a elderly man shopping at the local thrift store remarked to me as we both noticed a young weary mom wrangling four kids under age five (who were running around and/or clinging to her), “Ah, she’s got her hands full. I wish her well.” He pre-paid her part of her tab on his way out.

It was the year The Sun Magazine gifted me a year’s subscription when I cancelled mine—somehow it came up in our communications that I’d been laid off, and they comped me a whole year.

It was the year I kept waiting to buy myself a nice bottle of wine to celebrate a new job, and also the year I decided just successfully navigating to the close of each day was enough to celebrate so I got the nice bottle anyway.

It was the year people helped each other clean up after the floods or opened their homes after fire, the year neighbors still helped one another despite political difference, the year individuals didn’t compromise their values in the name of change.

It was the year kids grew and elders faded, fresh grief and old made room for each other, and the northern lights showed themselves with abandon, even to those in the south.

It was the year things changed, for better or worse. Probably both.

It was the year the lilacs bloomed in October.

Here is one of them.

The Year the Lilacs Bloomed in October

One thing
after another, 
it just keeps coming
no respite in sight–
loss injury illness floods
people losing their minds
over an election, war
that seems unceasing during
an autumn of leaves blazing bright 
toward dying, their colors slightly 
muted, nature’s version of grief.
We walk through the season
praying for snow as lilacs bloom 
next to burnt umber, purple petals
sending unexpected scents of spring rising 
as yellow and red foliage falls–
a sign all is not right but even
when all is not right, beauty 
presents itself anyway, 
even as there’s a longing 
for the shift to stillness, 
the turn of the wheel we expect
at the end of a year
that’s too much,
an invitation to look up
a reminder
that when we pay attention, 
and when believe the sky, 
November is when things happen. 

A poem with this name is included in Just Wild Enough.

1. If I remember correctly, Anton Treuer said this via social media post in February, 2024.