Things outside are slowing down, folding inward, dying back. I can already feel the shift that autumn and winter bring. I'm ready.
We heat with wood so the upstairs of our little house tends to be cold. That means – by default – that we gather together more often. Not tucked up reading or making in our own small corners, but curled together beside the fire. We knit and spin, draw and sew, read and play. It anchors us.
But we're not quite there yet.
We still haven't struck the first fire in the wood stove. Not yet, but soon.
Before we let the slow season call us in to warm beside the fire, there is more to be done. More roots to dig and herbs to dry, more mud pies to make and bouquets to arrange, more bulbs to plant and leaves to jump into. And there are animals to tend to and garden beds to establish, manure to haul and firewood to stack.
The work and play of the changing season.
And then, at last, inward.
I told Pete yesterday that you can tell how I'm feeling by how many photographs I have taken.
And I haven't picked up my camera in nearly a week.
It is a sleepy melancholy that comes for me with autumn, and sometimes I struggle to lift out of it. This morning I decided to wake myself up to the quiet beauty of autumn here. With that in mind I set an alarm for 6. I would get dressed, make tea, then grab my camera and head out into the fog. Because October is lovely. I just needed to remind myself.
But just before the kettle boiled the rain began in the still darkness, and I decided to stay in. It was too easy to convince me, but my pajamas were so much cozier than a cold rain.
Now the storm has passed and first light is here, so maybe I'll venture out.
Or, perhaps, I'll light that first fire in the wood stove and gather with my family around the warmth.