These October mornings have been cold.
The kind of cold that come spring might almost feel warm, but today has us pulling on our long johns and fuzzy hats.
The thick morning frosts have taken down the last of the tomatoes and peppers, basil and cilantro.
The goats and sheep are thickening up with fat and fiber for the coming days.
We've changed out the clothes in our drawers from shorts and t-shirts to sweaters and woolies.
And each day the meals I cook are heartier, richer, warmer.
And so the season turns.
We spent yesterday digging potatoes (a little late, but no one's keeping score) in the autumn sunshine, chasing the meat chickens into the garden to clean up the fallen produce, and cleaning out the barn.
It has been good therapy. To dig up pound after pound of potatoes that I feared we'd lose to the cold, to empty box after box that has sat quietly gathering dust and sucking my chi since last November.
To be overwhelmed but to start just the same.
To decide that a little progress is worthwhile, even if we can't do it all.
And yes, I found the birthday bunting. The one I missed in August. There it was, in the barn, just waiting for me to unpack a few more boxes.
It was in a bag. On the floor. Under the hay.
All it took was a little cleaning up and letting go. And there it was. Bam.
Life is good.
Even though the to-do list never seems to grow shorter; even though it's almost November and we don't have firewood (or a chimney for our wood stove), we're getting there.
Bit by bit.
Day by day.
And that is enough.
Because I can't do it all.
Not today, not tomorrow. So rather that grieving what I haven't done, I'll celebrate what I have.
No, we can't do it all. But we can do some.
And that, my friend, is enough.