I’m one of those people who feels the need to mourn summer, but secretly relishes the turning of seasons. Summer, I often find, is too full of life. The kids are home, and everywhere energy is bursting in a competition of color and song. I am easily over-whelmed and distracted.

Give me, instead, the slow grace of autumn. Let me linger on the resilience of life refusing to succumb to an easy sleep. Now, the forest chatter is filled with squirrels and chipmunks rushing to store sustenance for the long months of winter. The palette is painted in hues of the setting sun, and Earth still hugs the warmth of her heat.

In autumn, one can’t help but notice the endurance of life. How it springs from decay: And burst forth from open wounds:
In autumn, the writer cannot help but be drawn to the lure of long nights, when the pull of the moon is stronger than the sun, and the magic of darkness stirs with creative potential. In the months when life is falling into “sleep,” I find the quickening of the soul, awakening the true self within.