There is something so different about the way the sun plays in October. The color of the light is more yellow and rich, as if we were living in semi-sepia. The sky takes on a deeper, more tangible blue. Everything feels (or appears) more solid and tactile. Intellectually, I know it has to do with the angle of the sun and the earth, but in my heart it is about a mellowing. Everything is deeper, earthier, more solid than it had been just a few weeks ago.There is a melancholy edge to it, and walking through the woods feels a bit like saying goodbye to a beloved friend who never stays quite long enough. The seedheads and bedraggled leaves are reminders of those moments when there were bright blossoms, berries, and birdsong. Now there is quiet, with the occasional plunk of a falling black walnut or the skittering of a squirrel in the fallen leaves.
In a way, autumn helps us to learn to live in the moment more than any other season. Spring and summer offer us such abundant displays of color that sometimes we don't stop to notice the single blossom, the leaves in their singular appearance, or the "personality" of each specific plant. In the fall, we can scarcely help but notice each bit that glows and offers us a glimpse into their cycle and habit.
The harvest is even more solid, with root vegetables, apples, and pumpkins taking the stage - all substantial and thick.And so I crunch along, back to work... into the cozy workshop that will soon be wearing long crystalline stalactites of ice that will nearly touch the ground.We're closing in on a hard frost. It won't be much longer. Into the stark gray light of winter, we'll go.