I am running around, trudging up and down the stairs, gathering items to throw into my suitcase for this next 2 week trip to Europe. How many times have I done this?

This morning I take a moment to turn my head to the window as I round the stair landing. Half a block away, and high in the sky, against the crisp blue, is a ball of bright, cherry red color. And it takes me a moment to realize what it is.

It’s the final fruit of the neighbors’ magnolia tree, those flat seeds that slither from the cone-shaped pods of the spent blossoms.

They are not really the last phase of the tree’s yearly effort, because the magnolia is a busy, showy specimen that gives and gives and offers up surprising delights all year round.

And each phase is distinct and unusual.

Of course I love the soft, limpid flowers in the summer – their lush creaminess and intoxicating fragrance – who could not? But they are short lived beauties. If you bring them inside they will become brown overnight and droop their musty heads in sadness.

And after that there comes the nut brown, prickly pods that seem to serve no apparent function.

Until the seeds.

They squeeze up silently, slipping from the ordinary stems and seemingly overnight they are pinched from the fuzz. I think they are seeds, but why in October?

And then the rough pods will darken and shrug back into the tree for the winter, and we think no more of them. But my, the green gloss of the waxy plant leaves, that cluster so perfectly, catch our attention yet again.

And soon it will be Advent and the mantle will need adorning. But even then, once cut, the cuttings will stubbornly list and fall in the most gangly and imperfect variations. But we love them anyway – their festive green color, their vigor, their ability to survive yet another year.

There is something so elusive and impermanent about the Southern magnolia that captivates me.

In the Spring, just as all things fuzzy and soft begin to emerge, so too the almost obscenely pink pods emerge. I reach out to touch them, they are like huge furry tongues, alive and fertile, ready to be awaked by the warmth and sun.

To me, there seems to be a metaphor in every bit of nature. It reflects our own moods, our own bodies and may even provide insight into the life cycle that we share more intimately than we know.

I know that tonight when I sit in the artificial, unnatural cabin of the airplane, borne off to a place far from home, when I close my eyes I will imagine the red seeds, how they caught my attention, even within all of the rush and worry of the day.

I will imagine them as bright cherry eyes, awake and alert, and waiting for my return home, for my pause, my notice and reflection. Because we are somehow connected, my eye and the little seed. And if I take the time to slow down, I know that the moment of observation can be ripe and full of possibility.

It seems like nature calls out to me, especially in October. Saying farewell to the bounty of Summer, that time that is ripe with all of the gifts that have unwrapped before my eyes, without even a careless thanks from me.

Gratitude means slowing down, paying attention, and reflecting on these red seeds and all of the tiny things that shine out with all of the power of Nature.

They are quietly waiting for me to discover them, for me to really take the time to try to see.