Sunday, October 31, 2010

Tuesday, October 19, 2010


The leaves here are beginning to turn; a hint of orange amongst the pines, a shock of red painting the elms, the gentle browning of stubborn oaks. The weeds, first to rise and first to turn, glow and shimmer in flaxen waves like bolts of gilded silk unfurled.

On my commute to work, I pass a lovely farm with horses that graze on rolling hills. The sun rising over the mountain illuminates only the soft tips of their ears by the time I arrive alongside this simple fence to sit in traffic. When the mornings are chilly, a mist blankets this busy stretch of county road, rendering the landscape otherworldly. From beneath the ghostly veil of fog crows suddenly take flight in silence; nursery rhymes and poetry written in black ink across the rosy sky.

Here I sit and wonder over how fortunate I am to experience these moments. Each tiny curling leaf, shifting ray of autumnal light, whisper of chill breeze and transient geese, each fragment of seasonal beauty I harvest all create within me a home. This home I can always return to no matter the new adventures I begin or the familiar places I leave behind. This collected home is me; my foundation of skipping stones, my frames of crisp leaves, my rafters of feathers and moonlight, my hearth kept warm by laughter and love.

All things on Earth point home in old October; sailors to sea, travellers to walls and fences, hunters to field and hollow and the long voice of the hounds, the lover to the love he has forsaken.
Thomas Wolfe