Of a Winter's Morning

The frosty winter morning, bejeweled with the waning moon hanging tranquilly in the cobalt light of dayspring, began cold and white; I was up early and not exactly happily so.

Then, the glow began; soft and warm, faintly tingeing the white expanse with gold and pink; rays, seemingly of molten gold, warming my heart if not the air and I began to revel in the beauty of the approaching day.

Growing stronger, the light began to fill the cracks and crevices until the lingering shadows were dispelled from the snowy patchwork at my feet; morning had broken.

Blues, pinks and purples infused with gold, were wrapping themselves across the sky, painting vivid streaks on the clouds; the snow taking on the reflected glory. The fog, rising from the lake and the myriad crooks and crannies of the surrounding hills, glowing pink in first light; craggy peaks rearing their snowy heads, as if reaching for the proffered rays.

How many dawns like this have I missed, wrapped snug in my nocturnal harbor? How many bedazzling mornings have I forfeited, cozy but oblivious?

No matter, I was here now, basking in the beauty of creation once again. Tears sprang to my eyes unbidden as I traversed the snowy landscape; how I know God loves me as he shares with me the beauty and glory of His creations.

Every once in a while something so beautiful and unmatched crosses your path,and you know, along with Anne Shirley,that God is in His heaven and all is right with the world.

The Breath of Autumn

I worked in the steamy kitchen, alternating between sink and bubbling canning pots, feeling hot and somewhat agitated; outside it was a glorious autumn day and I was laboring inside. I needed air.

I opened the window and the breath of autumn came in, lusty and clean. I was transported to “the Farm” once again; the only place of refuge and peace in my childhood.

I’m in the forest; it’s been raining. The tiny breeze stirring the stillness; leaves, heavily laden are drip, drip, dripping around me and on me. I don’t care; the sound is at once calming and invigorating. The forest, or “woods” as we called them, is my solace. Nothing else matters; I am safely cocooned in my personal sacred grove. The world is my own.

As I ramble, the air begins to take on a life of its own; fog begins to rise around me; the mist, light and fresh, highlights the rolling hills, bringing into definition the glories of God’s creations. As the fog lifts, so too my spirit; and, finding God in the treetops, I begin to feel His presence.

The smell of damp, decaying vegetation, combined with the earthy, leafy smell of freshly fallen leaves, make a heady scent that for me is as the sweetest rose. Rough bark streaked from the rain is giving off its own woodsy fragrance. The richest lavender fields of France could not be sweeter than my woods.

I wander for hours, never needing the companionship of anyone else, perfectly happy to gad about across the duff. My mind and my heart are free; no place that I need to go; only the need TO go.
A small stream provides me a refreshing drink if needed, and fallen logs ample resting places; yet finding peace of spirit is all I really need.

Wandering as I do, the sounds and scents of nature fill my soul to bursting; there is nothing on earth that matters, no trouble too large to overcome; peace prevails once again.

I’m cooled off now, and back at my task; I thank God for memories that let me relive the comfort and peace that was so badly needed then; I thank Him too, for the Breath of Autumn that whisked me back there, if only temporarily.

The Last Day of Summer

Today is the last day of summer; the last hope for warm, lazy summer afternoons for the next few months.
For now, the nights will get longer; we'll cocoon ourselves with sweaters and wool socks; we'll feed ourselves comfort foods that invoke days gone by, and dearly departed loved ones.
Cooler weather will fill our senses as the days meander onward, into the heart of winter.

As I traverse the days of my autumn existence I take pleasure in the cooler days and the dense morning fog; the hope of Indian summer ever present in my heart and mind.

We’ll put the garden to bed, the tools snug in their places; we’ll fill the woodshed, the spicy scents of pine and cedar pungent and sweet; the harvest is in, or nearly so; the larder filling up with gleaming jars.

The changing of the leaves, like the changing of the guard, creates a striking show; my mind wanders back to other autumns long forgotten, but ever present; a green forest rich with autumn beauty in what seemed a treat just for me. Wood smoke hanging low in the air as I scramble over the spongy ground, the sights and smells of autumn a riotous carnival of color and beauty; the trees dancing in the breeze would sing to me of the dying and rebirth cycle about to begin again; at once, ancient and new.

Scarlet and gold, bronze, crimson and green, vying for my attention and my heart; for this, autumn is my favorite season. Winter has Christmas and the New Year; summer has its pools and parties; spring has new growth and secret gardens. But autumn, autumn shouts its glory for all to witness; the last hurrah before the long winter’s nap.
Combine this with the smell of dry leaves and wet pavement, or wood smoke and spicy cider, or all of the above; I enjoy the season as it awakens every cell within me to the beauty of God’s majesty, and treats my senses to the abundance of His love.

Who can count the joys of autumn?