My suitcase is officially in storage. The patio tomato plants are winding down. A second wave of garden tomatoes is coming on. The college junior is piling her boxes and furniture in the garage to haul to Savannah this weekend while the man-son races about getting vaccines and visas in order, for his year abroad in Taiwan. Besides that, the air smells different than two weeks ago ~ what was green grass is now brown leaves.
I love summer and would be sad to see it pass except for how much I also love the first half of fall. The short dark days of November and December I love because I knit more and wear pajamas more hours of the day. Then it’s winter, when the chicken water freezes and the hens don’t lay many eggs. But we get to wear sweaters and eat chili for supper. Then the days start lasting longer and the daffodil bulbs push through and it’s back to the nursery for garden plants again.
In June I never think about winter; but when the seasons change, every season is on my mind at once, as well as every season I have lived till now. How is it I am fifty-three years old? In college I imagined fifty-three and seventy-five were practically next door neighbors. At forty I knew better. At fifty-three I realize I was right in college after all. The years may be short but none of them is ever lost. All fifty-three of them are always with me here and now. Each new turn of season is every turn of season I’ve ever known before. On the breeze of my fifty-third is the scent of my twenty-second and my seventh too. I am every age I’ve ever been, when the Indiana leaves begin to fall. What a precious life this is! I pray this note finds you full of gratitude for another day to be alive.
~ peace & prayers,