Pulled down by the wind and rain, most of the maple’s leaves had been deposited on the walkway before us, where they were further tamped down by the footfalls of humans. It seemed like such an ignoble ending to what had been a lovely journey, yet this very act of destruction and degradation was all a part of the process. From the decay and disintegration came a covering that would once again become one with the soil, nourishing the next crop of leaves that were waiting to bud and unfurl in chartreuse glory come spring. 

On the edge of a forest, where a stream maintains its gentle flow even when it rains, this bed of leaves is a blanket that will ultimately provide sustenance and support to the very tree from which it came. To some it is a sad sight – the embodiment of summer’s end and ruin – to others it is a happy sign of a cozy slumber to come, and the chance to rejuvenate and rest for the next year. 

We all need a winter blanket. 

Callicarpa, commonly known as beautyberry, is coming into its glory just as the season of the sun is preparing for the slumber of winter. I happened upon this one while in Manchester, VT – and that’s usually how it happens. I don’t grow any in our yard because the payoff comes too late in the season to be fully enjoyed, but I love seeing these glorious purple berries against their light green foliage in other gardens. 

There are a few in the Southwest Corridor Park in Boston, and they’ve always been a comfort to see. Whether it’s because they recall sunnier days, or offer an extension to the warmer season, I find their beauty very much a balm at the time of the year when the cold clicks in for the long haul. 

On the way to Amsterdam, with a feeling of gratitude for Andy being behind the wheel so I can watch the fall color go down with the sun, I sink back into the seat and let the last light of the day lull me into the briefest of naps. 

A quick little peek of water provides a glimpse of Sunday afternoon grace, a piece of what it once felt like to be in the hush of church at those moments when faith and spirituality became something tangible, something I could touch and wrap around me. It didn’t happen often, but it did happen. It’s how I understand the power of religion – those little brushes with grace. 

When the light is just right, or the wind is just so, and you let yourself let go of the cares and concerns of the wickedness of this world, you may find the grace like a sliver of the sublime. It’s a bittersweet thing, because it doesn’t happen all the time – at least, I haven’t been lucky enough to manifest it all the time. That tells me there is more to learn, secrets that might reveal a more regular method of brushing against the sublime. 

The sky was unsettled, and the best thing about an unsettled sky, despite the rain it may bring, is that it’s a often a thing of dramatic beauty. It brushes that beauty upon the trees and the water and the land beneath it. One of the best-kept secrets of the universe is how it is the sky that decides what sort of day we are having, not the sun: that sun is shining day and night – it’s the stuff that comes between us that makes all the difference. 

The question of what the banding on the woolly bear caterpillar indicates as far as winter goes is answered (at least one version of an answer) in the helpful diagram below. Based on what I can see of the specimen I found earlier this fall, this may be a mild winter. From this caterpillar’s fur to Mother Nature’s ear. 

Mercury is scheduled to slip out of retrograde emotion at long last, hopeful ending this recent spate of insanity and difficulty. It’s been a doozy of a few weeks, and I’m ready to put it all behind us and move into the latter half of October. Godspeed, Mercury, to the return of your typical trajectory. On with the weekly recap…

Last week began with the haunting memory of Matthew Shepard. 

A watery reprieve.

Phasing out Facebook feels like the right thing to do at this moment. 

A scarf and a belt. 

Colors of October.

A lackluster Madonna Timeline.

A flower on Newbury Street.

My Uncle died of COVID, and he wasn’t vaccinated. 

A cat sleeps in Manchester.

Go easy on me. 

Chilly fall start.

Arborvitae in the afternoon light. 

The Dazzlers of the Day were Polo Morín and Lynda Carter.

A chilly start to the morning is ameliorated by the cup of matcha which gives off little tendrils of steam beside me. We haven’t hard a hard frost yet, and the mornings have been rather pleasant, but Andy has noticed the geese already heading South. Maybe they know more than we do about the weather to come. 

It is dark when I get up for work now, something that will change slightly when we move the time back by an hour in a couple of weeks. We’ll have earlier morning light then, but it will go away sooner at the end of the day, and then the dark will almost arrive by the time I get out of work. Fall and winter often offer no-win situations like that. There’s always a trade-off for the glories of spring and summer.