October, Easy and Gentle

“What’s that noise?”

Even without my hearing aids the loud, low hum distracts me from our noontime chess game. I left them off this morning because I had an appointment with the optometrist. Concentrating on changes to one sense at a time seemed a good idea.

Gerry rises from his chair, looks out the window, and reports back. It’s the sound of October. The landscapers are blowing out the sprinklers: a harbinger of what’s coming.

The deer munch my geraniums, prompting discussion about the right time to wrap the junipers. I contemplate cleaning out my front flower bed, or at least pulling the messy cosmos that undulates in the wind. I mention putting the deck furniture away. We talk about planting garlic and I think about pulling beets and making pickles. I light a pumpkin pie scented candle in my office.

The autumn colour is at its peak. Soon leaves will drop in earnest. We talk about taking an afternoon drive before that happens. I think about pulling out my camera.

The aroma of baking apple pie comforts. I chop vegetables and make soup. I spend a guiltless afternoon in my wing chair with a book, the lid of a yellow highlighter in my mouth as I mark another passage and scribble a note.

I wear socks and shoes and am thankful for the warmth of a sweater. I suck on Vicks cherry cough drops and my stuffy head makes me feel sluggish. This cold has wrapped its tentacles around me and doesn’t want to let go.

It’s dark in the morning when I wake and at night when we crawl into bed. We switch lights on when there was no need to before. I remember that there’s a lack of adequate light on the counter I work most in in the kitchen.

We enjoy a visit from my cousin and her husband. (That’s a sweet sentence I couldn’t have written a couple of years ago.) There is much laughter and good conversation. I wish we lived closer. If no one took a photo, did the event really happen? I replay images and conversations in my mind. Old school. They way we did before cell phone cameras.

October comes in with respite. Everything whispers of slowing down, letting go, and taking gentle care. I heed the voice.