Gratitude is a sure path to grace, so I’ve been told. I am allowing it to exercise itself upon me this bright afternoon.
Slow gesture of color in the descending diffusion of herbs and leaves, the still waters otherwise at rest in the sunshine. Quaking vines and pines, shadows pass over me, a ballet performance, too: a two tipped offering from Uncle Pine, dancing as if with paired fairy legs, each gusty breath of wind sets them aflutter once again across the earthen wall. Cloaked in a nook of yellow leaves, lit up big from behind, I sit, a Writer’s Table my horizontal tableau.
The world is slowly turning, as ever, and with it the deep inhale of lengthening nights. Evenings, we set alight candles, fires, lanterns and songs to keep our eyes bright for meeting the gaze of others. Care is being given to the dusty corners of the home and the rusty, crusty mess of our neglected, work-worn feet. We are listening to hear the earth fall to slumber, our hearts striving to grow and fill this space of darkness with love, light. Hibernating, we dream our way through these early winter nights, trusting the aperture of solstice to work it’s magic one more time.