Jim Taylor's Columns - 'Soft Edges' and 'Sharp Edges'

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4

Sep

2019

The changing seasons of life

Author: Jim Taylor

Our hummingbirds have flown south.

            We hung out three hummingbird feeders all summer. Hummingbirds are scrappy little critters, even more so than finches. They fiercely defend their own territory, which includes what they think of as their own private Walmart of sweet nectar.

            Even so, we’ve sometimes had three or four birds zipping around at a time, grabbing a sip here, a sip there.

            The last hummingbird dropped in for a drink about two weeks ago. I think she was a female calliope hummingbird, although she didn’t stay still long enough for an unskilled bird watcher like me to check her anatomical details.

            She fluttered up, slurped, and was gone.

            And didn’t come back for a second martini.

           That last little hummingbird prompted me to read up about bird migration.


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5

Dec

2018

Permission to let go

Author: Jim Taylor

“All the leaves have gone,” sang The Mamas and the Papas in their short but brilliant musical career. 

            Their words come to mind as I look out my office window. Joan and I planted a Japanese red maple out there, 20 years ago. All its leaves have gone. 

            Except for two lonely twigs that still have bright red leaves clinging to their tips. The twigs lash about in winter winds. But those last leaves won’t let go.

        Perhaps I should go outside and say a prayer for the last leaves on my maple tree. So that they can let go too.


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17

Oct

2018

Seasons of the year, and of life

Author: Jim Taylor

As I sit at my computer, typing these words, falling leaves drift by my window. And I can’t help thinking about the song penned by Johnny Mercer back in 1945 about “autumn leaves of red and gold…”

            Mercer wrote his words as a love song: “I see your lips, your summer kisses… but I miss you most of all, when autumn leaves start to fall.”

            But I think the song’s haunting quality derives from its universality: “Soon I’ll hear old winter’s song…” 

The days are clear and bright, the temperatures temperate, the nights brisk. Here in the Okanagan Valley, we don’t get the flaming colours of Vermont or Ontario. But the golden leaves of aspens, back-lit by low sun, framed by the dark greens of spruce and fir, still make me catch my breath.

            Part of the beauty, though, comes from knowing it can’t last. 

            This is a precious time, as “the days dwindle down to a precious few” (Anderson and Weill, September Song). I remind myself, as I walk the dog these autumn days, to savour every bit of beauty, every moment of enchantment.

            Because it won’t last, can’t last. 


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