Posted on November 20, 2019
there’s a different feel to November
now that the days are shorter
and the leaves are on the ground
Posted on November 1, 2019
the month of letting go
Posted on November 20, 2018
“In November, the earth is growing quiet. It is making its bed, a winter bed for flowers and small creatures. The bed is white and silent, and much life can hide beneath its blankets.”
― Cynthia Rylant
Posted on November 21, 2017
Praise the light of late November,
the thin sunlight that goes deep in the bones.
Praise the crows chattering in the oak trees;
though they are clothed in night, they do not
despair. Praise what little there’s left:
the small boats of milkweed pods, husks, hulls,
shells, the architecture of trees. Praise the meadow
of dried weeds: yarrow, goldenrod, chicory,
the remains of summer. Praise the blue sky
that hasn’t cracked yet. Praise the sun slipping down
behind the beechnuts, praise the quilt of leaves
that covers the grass: Scarlet Oak, Sweet Gum,
Sugar Maple. Though darkness gathers, praise our crazy
fallen world; it’s all we have, and it’s never enough.
~ Barbara Crooker
So where did autumn go? It seems to be slipping quietly by this year. There was a beautiful wedding..but then there was a funeral. The sweet and the bitter.
As I mentioned in my previous post, I am striving for authenticity in my images. This first photo was taken after nights of horrible insomnia..those circular thoughts going around and around in my head. Pushing myself out the door for some long walks in the woods seemed to help (I finally found some trails where hunting is not allowed), exploring and gathering what’s left of autumn, “our crazy fallen world”
There are projects left to finish, a few new ones in the works and a busy holiday season ahead. One day at a time, as they say.
Grateful to have the whole family home soon. I love when the house is full. Will be busy feeding lots of hungry mouths…should sleep well this week.
Wishing all who celebrate, a very Happy Thanksgiving.
Posted on November 4, 2015
In autumn, I write of days smoldering like embers to ash, grass, stiff, green-weary, waiting for somnolent winter, everywhere, gathered birds stuck in spindly branches and gardens done with giving… of air, over-ripe, indolent, like the last great cluster of grapes on the vine, which winds its way across the wall, tendrils turned to wood.
~ Elaine Christensen