Everything has to come to an end, sometime.
L. Frank Baum, The Marvelous Land of Oz
The calendar still says August, but it has gently transformed into a slower and gentler month. These last few days feel more like autumn than summer; subtle signs of the change of seasons abound.
Busy, almost frantic, days give way to cool and quiet mornings when gentle rain washes smoke from the air; and quiet Sunday afternoons spent curled up under a quilt, lost in a book, while a pot of hearty goodness bubbles on the stove in the next room.
In the front yard, Gerry has replaced the wild and unkempt pots of petunias, morning-glory, and sweet peas, with tidy and compact fall mums.
The freezer and canning shelves are respectably full of summer’s bounty. The garden continues to provide, her bounty no less sweet and welcome, but—to be honest—it feels like she has overstayed her welcome just a tiny bit this year.
I feel like I did before I retired—when I was ready, and eager, to let go of that which once brought me great fulfillment in favour of something different. Now too, I am ready for a different season.
And so, on this cool Monday morning, as I sit cozy under the comfort and warmth of my duvet, and the sun rises high in the clear and smoke-free sky, I settle in to the moment. Gratitude abounds for the season that was, and sweet expectation for the one that is to come is carried in on the morning air through the open door.
But above all, my thanksgiving and hope is not for what or where or when—it is for Who.
Soli Deo gloria.