I walk the silent garden in awe—the last sun of the day immersing the western sky in golden pinks. All my senses are stirred; my soul afloat in a buoyant kind of an ecstasy. And I walk on tiptoe, so as not to hinder the sacred silence that has befallen… walking in reverse, and out of time, as if by doing so I could stop time or get ahead of time… before dusk transpire, leaving my soul hanging from its bare bones. Days are so short, so short and this melancholy that comes with those last days of autumn is in us too, this feeling of nature flowing back and forth. It is the time for the quieting of spirits and the slow walks under orange moons. It is the season of inner calm and a kindly stoicism etched in memories of joy.
I hear movement, a bird, or two, foraging among the dried leaves of vines for ripen grapes, and I want to reach out and cuddle them in my hands like these last days of autumn cuddle my heart in auburn leaf hands.
And thus, our Christmas tree is up and lighting shadows away…
It is cold and dark as I'm finishing my post, but inside is the gentle light of fairy lights, the music of flutes playing softly and the smell of fresh cinnamon buns wafting out of the oven to great our souls as we smile and sit down to enjoy our home for the last few hours remaining of the day, or the evening, until we leave home again in the early morning… goodnight everyone!