I’m tucked up in bed early with my book. It’s October and the days are getting shorter. Night has fallen and there’s a fine drizzle falling outside. I almost always sleep with my window open if just a little. I am listening to the rain making plop, plop noises onto the matted leaves under the maple tree outside.
A small breeze is blowing chill air laden with the moist moldy smell that makes autumn the best time of the year. What is contained in that smell that touches some primal place and urges us to shelter ourselves, store up food, and indulge in long convoluted story telling ?
I feel compelled to fry donuts, bake bread, make soup, start a quilt, knit a sweater, write a friend. All from breathing deeply of a chill autumn breeze.
Our harvesting is over and now we shall have time to gather our thoughts and think them more deeply and mayhap we shall become wise this winter. The seeds of doubt that we may have planted in the spring have grown into great heaps of thoughts that must now be sorted out and understood. More lessons learned that must be distilled to sustain us in the slumber time of winter.
Every year, I am surprised by this fall phenomenon. It is as if winter, spring and summer erase my memory of this tender time of year out of sheer jealousy of it’s power. Somehow I wonder if that power is the secret that what seems like the ending is really the beginning. A tantalizing thought, a conundrum worthy of a long debate with a good friend. But my eyes begin to droop from the long days’ work. I pull the covers up to my chin but refuse to close the window. I must breathe the air and fall under the spell before autumn turns to winter. Perhaps this time I will not forget… perhaps.
A small breeze is blowing chill air laden with the moist moldy smell that makes autumn the best time of the year. What is contained in that smell that touches some primal place and urges us to shelter ourselves, store up food, and indulge in long convoluted story telling ?
I feel compelled to fry donuts, bake bread, make soup, start a quilt, knit a sweater, write a friend. All from breathing deeply of a chill autumn breeze.
Our harvesting is over and now we shall have time to gather our thoughts and think them more deeply and mayhap we shall become wise this winter. The seeds of doubt that we may have planted in the spring have grown into great heaps of thoughts that must now be sorted out and understood. More lessons learned that must be distilled to sustain us in the slumber time of winter.
Every year, I am surprised by this fall phenomenon. It is as if winter, spring and summer erase my memory of this tender time of year out of sheer jealousy of it’s power. Somehow I wonder if that power is the secret that what seems like the ending is really the beginning. A tantalizing thought, a conundrum worthy of a long debate with a good friend. But my eyes begin to droop from the long days’ work. I pull the covers up to my chin but refuse to close the window. I must breathe the air and fall under the spell before autumn turns to winter. Perhaps this time I will not forget… perhaps.