One thing: October.
Every day a stone of honeyed amber, warmed by a constant sun.
Was it lovely for you? Was it a topaz jewel in your heart's crown?
Grasses, trees, sky, all hopelessly beautiful.
I say "hopeless" because it is now December, and thinking about October feels like coming across a picture of an exquisite dessert made for a king, by a master pastry chef who died before you were born. It is a dessert decorated with gold leaf and sugared violets, thick with cream—so bewitching that your mouth waters just looking at it.
But the receipt is lost, and winter has come. May our memories and a good fire keep us warm, though still we long for that lost taste.
Since I last wrote here, I've been growing flowers.
Since I last wrote, I've been traveling.
I've gone walking on a floodplain island, where white-tailed deer run on pathways that weave in and out of the Otherworld and cottonwoods...and where two rivers meet.
I came home to watch goldfinches raiding my garden for hyssop seeds. The leaves of snowberry, juneberry and chokeberry glowed brighter and brighter, reflecting back the long hours of sunlight they'd collected all summer. Gladdening my heart.
In my memory, I spent days watching bees drink from asters.
My list of goals shrank. I let a lot of things slide. I had nothing to say.
Under a waxing moon, I wonder. Will a reading of the astrological transits cast some light on this sense of obstacles, unknown thresholds? Sometimes the mystery is too mysterious. Sometimes peace is sought, and sought. It is worth a try.