When the sun loses ambition and begins to rest lower in the sky, when tender light brightens gold and burnt red and emerald green, when fields turn yellow and tall grasses gain tawny tassels and flowers in clumps alongside the road remain colorful, even as thick trees and little shrubs and manicured lawns remain green.
When the earth becomes an exquisite quilt spread to misty blue. When the beginning of fall is here.
Oh, how my heart sings.
Even in the anticipation of death. When we wait for it.
And sometimes, despite what provides relief before the gap, and reminders inside it-the snow and the caroling and the crackling fires, there is disquiet.
The cold is harsh to some.
My daughters are mindful of this. But they find the good too. They laugh and delight in the thrill of warm blankets and hot pumpkin spice lattes, of good books and sparkling lights and eggnog.
I do too.
I try not to think of the way the sky will soon look, pulled tight and thin, without color. And I remember the life that comes from death, the little seeds that die in the soil to provide sustenance for a planet, the regeneration that occurs in the rest. The splendor at the edge of night.
And I remember why Christmas is in the midst of it all, how hope and promise can always be found in such times.
There is always resurrection.
Twinkling light can always be found.
This autumn is generous, anticipation soft and gentle, so unlike those times it has arrived on scorching winds to render the world parchment, dry and brittle and threatening to crack. No, this one holds on to celebratory pigment, allowing glimpses of what is to come only in increments, a contrast against fertility still in motion.
This time, the rain, a faithful friend, never really disappeared.
Regardless of my placement in the cycles, however, I can choose gratitude for all that is on the way. For the magnificent hues that will usher in the rest to come. And for the re-birth that is on the horizon too. As we brace for the next season and the weather to come, we can rejoice in the goodness of now, no matter what tomorrow will hold.
For every tomorrow holds the promise of another colorful spring, another masterpiece painted by a grand Artist.
One who will never let us stay where we are.