I've been admiring the fall garden, how it slides so quickly yet accurately from full outward life to inward--how like an introvert, how like me, it puts away the facade and once again quiets itself to center and gather over a winter. I've come to cherish winter now, too--the time, the reflection, knowing that it will very soon be spring again and I'll be called outside, which is both a working inward and outward from myself. The garden is one key part to who I am, and yet so is the writing. It is time for writing, to carpe in a different way again.
I don't know if everything works out, but I have this incurable sense that it will, that a storm of purpose and direction is gathering around me and all I have to do is show up and be ready to ride the wind home. Yes, that's ALL I or anyone has to do. I hear a blue jay calling from the elm, and see a flash of red from a house finch. A last green tomato is on the vine. The fog and mist is heavy today but it holds me close to home. I swear that even as I write these words I can smell the rich soil of home in Minnesota and the tinny soil of home in Oklahoma like two halves to a mystery coming together here in Nebraska. This is how it feels to put your hand into dirt at the end of a garden year and know time and place are illusions.
two halves to a mystery coming together here - I'll take that as an omen for my 'it's complicated' life.
Yes, everything works out ... one way or another.
Someone as close to nature and beauty as you obviously are, knows that in his heart.
Poignant post. Not that it would be a surprise to you, but you have such a gift to share - with word & thought. Thanks for sharing your eloquence.
I love reading your comments! Almost, almost makes me believe in this blog (we all go through blog ruts, don't we?). Maybe I need to rant about something again, ruffle some feathers....
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