We have been walking through the morning hours of Autumn. Miles of yarn and prints of dog paws, and shoes, side by side. More chaotically spaced actually, mine straight forward, destination ahead, focused on the rounds of lace, of sleeves, of precious warm cardigans, and Emma’s prints with her own agenda, as the wild life is speaking to her and new smells are exciting her in zig-zag directions and renewed vigor giving her incentive to come up to the peak with me these days.
Our walks journey through Autumn, with the arrival of rain, we seem to be experiencing a gradual awakening of our dormant selves, as is with the succulent green mosses everywhere … our joy of joys.
To the peak we have walked a few times this Autumn already. On the ridge right before the peak, like a comfortable old bed, there is a soft pine needle layer from an eerie forest of stick-like old trees composting on the jutting toothy rock beneath … it is so dreamy to walk through, I just had to hang my knitting on it and be silly.
Everything is in its place, and life is good.