More of night, this time of year. Mornings are stark, warm covers lifted, and chilled hustles to the kitchen for coffee. Outside we yearn for rain. We dream of grey skies behind bare black oaks and mossy forest floors with sorells and turkey tails. We come home to sweet crackling wood and the plumes of smoking cedar rising from the chimney fill the air in our little hollow with the heaviness of autumn. We love autumn and her lovely season of decay. The breaking down so as to build up one day again. The unraveling and letting go. The black and burgundy and burnt oranges of her time of year marked by costumes and hauntings and wind whistling by. The garden is transitioning to a solemn place, forcing the last fresh blessed parts of our meals out on the vines before surrendering to the frost. It is a time for so-longs as we sit in the glow of the final warm sunsets, leaving behind the sands and boats and sunflowers of summer. But also of oh-hello's to the cheer and merriment of gift wrapping and hall decking. This year I want to take it slow. I want to walk through winter with a deliberate gaze on what means most through each holiday. Family. Looking forward to traditions with our little man and living vicariously through the wild wonder of childhood.
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