Walking along a foggy path in the late afternoon, in late Autumn, I observe the season expiring after the heavy rain last week. Everything seems to be falling to the ground, exhausted. Soon there will be new grass popping up.
The last of the gold leaves wave in the breeze, as if to say “I’m tired, and it is time to go”, and the vines surely have given all their energy growing grapes for 2019 Harvest, and will wait bare until pruning time in late winter, leaving the trellises standing like soldiers in a winter field.
The stinging needles on the star thistle rot and become harmless, muted into the dull brown grass.
The fog surely lays burden to the spider webs, and even though nature is bedding down, the creatures are stirring.
The oaks are shedding leaves and covering the ground, another layer of compost for the soil, two years after the wildfire is nothing less than a treasure.
Yet some of what was dormant is now waking up, becoming lush, verdant, alive, as is the story of the moss.
So near to the solstice, I believe this little foggy outing has put me in the mood for more walking and writing, for it is at these times when I most intensely feel my existence. Rituals of coffee and chores, punctuated with knitting, walks, short naps, and contemplative writing, are my comfort as I get older. Peaceful and nearly silent my days tumble over one another, seemingly inconsequential, but if only to witness my landscape as it goes through the seasons. And I am happy it is so.
