creativity

In the pause: Welcome, Autumn

“Autumn is my time. I am most radiant and full of energy when the leaves are falling and there is a ghost of change in the air.” – Ladymadsen (The Iris Diaries)

I try to enjoy every day but I have to admit that truly I wait all year for the sweetness of autumn: the crisp and cool air, the gorgeous colors in the trees, toasty drinks, and delicious and rich fall foods. Give me my boots, jeans, and sweaters, and you give me instant happiness. Autumn is my spring, when my soul comes to life and celebrates change in all of its glorious forms. This is my time. For me, this is the season of possibility when I wake up to my own potential and the potential of everything around me to reach its peak.

creativity

Wonder: The comfort of winter

I first read the essay “Winter” by Nina Zolotow in Rodney Yee’s book Yoga: The Poetry of the Body in 2002. Since then, it’s something I’ve re-read dozens of times. May it bring you the same peace and relaxation it gives me in this long, cold, dark, and restful season of winter. Rest, my loves, and be glad.

“In their garden there was always a wild profusion of tomatoes ripening on the vine, and leafy basil, arugula, and lettuce, and glossy purple eggplants, and red and yellow peppers, and zucchini with its long, bright blossoms, and there was always lunch at the wooden table on hot summer afternoons, with plates of pasta and bread and olives and salads with herbs, and many bottles of red wine that made you feel warm and drowsy, while bees hummed and the sprawling marjoram, thyme, and rosemary gave off their pungent fragrances, and at the end of the meal, always, inexplicably, there were fresh black figs that they picked themselves from the tree at the garden’s center, an eighteen-foot fig tree, for how was it possible – this was not Tuscany but Ithaca – Ithaca, New York, a rough-hewn landscape of deep rocky gorges and bitter icy winters, and I finally had to ask him – my neighbor – how did that beautiful tree live through the year, how did it endure the harshness of a New York winter and not only survive until spring but continue producing the miraculous fruit, year after year, and he told me that it was quite simple, really, that every fall, after the tree lost all its leaves, he would sever the tree’s roots on one side only and, on the tree’s other side, he would dig a trench, and then he would just lay down that flexible trunk and limbs, lay them down in the earth and gently cover them with soil, and there the fig tree would rest, warm and protected, until spring came, when he could remove its protective covering and stand the tree up once again to greet the sun; and now in this long gray season of darkness and cold and grief (do I have to tell you over what? for isn’t it always the same – the loss of a lover, the death of a child, or the incomprehensible cruelty of one human being to another?), as I gaze out of my window at the empty space where the fig tree will stand again next spring, I think, yes, lay me down like that, lay me down like the fig tree that sleeps in the earth, and let my body rest easily on the ground – my roots connecting me to some warm immutable center – luxuriating in the heart of winter.” ~Nina Zolotow, “Winter”

creativity

Wonder: Be always blooming

be-always-bloomingSunday was a pretty spectacular day. I did most of my must-do items on Saturday so Sunday was a day to do whatever I wanted. It warmed up into the 60s, and Phin and I took a 2+ hour walk around our neighborhood. We enjoyed the sun, the warmth, and the many people and pups who stopped us to say hello. Every restaurant had its outdoor seating open. You could see the warmth seeping into people’s faces and opening up their smiles.

It’s supposed to snow on Friday. Though I do like the chilly weather, I’m looking forward to more than a taste of spring. It will be here in just a few short weeks. For me, the seasons are just the right length here in Washington, D.C. Just when I’m ready for a change, it arrives. No matter what the season, something’s always blooming.