"The brook would lose its song if the rocks were taken away." Elizabeth Kellogg

Avi Salzman, in Sundays New York Times, describes Autumn in New England arriving "like a prom queen, draped in boastful reds, yellows and rusty browns, perfumed with wood smoke."

I had the privilege this weekend of chaperoning 40-something musicians in the Ridgefield Symphony Youth Orchestra to a large retreat center in the Catskill Mountains of New York. Not exactly New England. But close enough.

The fall foliage was splendid, and daily walks through nature trails and around the on-site lake were nothing short of spectacular. What with the bite of the crisp fall air filling my lungs, an on-again off-again drizzle wetting my cheeks, and the occasional aroma of a leftover nighttime camp fire arousing my own childhood camp memories, it would be hard to miss natures extravagant call.

I didnt notice the plaque on the wall of our quintessentially-campy cabin until this morning, when I went back to clean up after the twenty gals sharing my quarters. With sleeping bags and luggage safely tucked into another cabin for pick-up, I was sent up to perform one last bunk-check. Lifting up skimpy mattresses to look for lost clothing, pulling back shower curtains to check for forgotten toiletries, collecting garbage to lighten the housekeepers load, and turning down both lights and thermostats, I happened to glance up at the back wall as I was tying the final plastic garbage liner. The plaque commemorated the completion of the lodge which bears Ms. Kelloggs name. It was shortly after reading her selected quote: the brook would lose its song if the rocks were taken away that I began my morning walk around the lake. For the first time all weekend, I noticed the brooks. It was one babbling brook after another, each singing its own song. And even though each day had brought a nature hike or two-walking right past these brooks each and every time-I had not heard their songs before.

I confess to taking nature for granted. We live-my family and I-in the middle of a large wooded lot, which is surrounded by a fifty acre nature preserve. Wildlife abounds: deer, wild turkey, rabbits, and fox are familiar creatures sharing our everyday space. I try to remember how fortunate I am, being able to view the raw beauty of nature each and every day. To drive down a long and windy driveway with an abundance of trees, wildflowers and yes, babbling brooks. Yet I dont. And so traveling to yet another beautiful mountaintop retreat-to co-habit with nature-was, I admit, a splendid, though not particularly unique experience. I deliberately took in the beauty of the changing leaves (and it was especially beautiful); I deliberately used my free time each day for nature hikes (and they were certainly special); and I deliberately lingered at the evening campfire (sans smores) to be especially sure that the smell and the smoke of it would stick to my memory for one full year, until I could recapture the experience once again.

But it was the words on that plaque that most struck me. That especially gave me pause. Wondering what kind of rocks had filled Ms. Kelloggs path. Pondering why they-among any words or quotes she could have possibly chosen-had inspired her. Why she chose these words to immortalize the dedication. Questioning if it were, indeed, the rocks in her life that fortified her to move forward, that gave her wisdom, or that taught her lessons she would otherwise have never learned, that allowed her to be where she found herself on the day in which a building was dedicated to her.

And so I took my walk around the lake, stopping for the first time to listen to the song of the brooks. To forget about having a cardio-workout or making good time. To just stop when I got to a brook and listen to its song. I noticed for the first time the abundance of rocks lining each brooks formation. And realized that-rock-free-each would simply be a mere silent stream of water.

Perhaps I would not have noticed the plaque in any other year. Rocks would not have had the significance that they have for me today. No. Reading the plaque was serendipitous to be sure. It helped me realize that people who have something significant to offer to the world have walked a rock-studded path. That silent streams of water might be beautiful in and of themselves, but that they cannot offer a beautiful song. That the brooks song is sweeter. Because of the rocks.

The serenity of my morning nature walks provided me with much-needed perspective. They helped to balance me. With no sound other than the wind rushing through the rapidly-changing fall leaves, the light rain hitting the ground, or the melodious song of the brooks: I came to the quiet resignation that rocks are a good thing. And that man-throughout time-has acknowledged the same. It was the whole into-every-life-a-little-rain-must-fall-no-one-ever-promised you-a-rose-garden thing. But out in nature-in the middle of the Catskills-I accepted it with peace. Not taking away from the glorious music which 40-something young musicians were producing inside a campy retreat center, it was the song of the brook that rang more majestic than ever.

I hope that this fall brings you time to retreat into solitude, too. That be it into nature or into a friends home; into travel to a faraway place or into the down-filled cushions of your living room sofa: that you are able to make time for solitude. For wisdom and soul-searching and decision-making and finding lifes meaning come not in the busyness and rush of everyday life, but in the moments captured in silence and solitude. In hearing the song of the brook.