I love this time, the opening of a new season, stepping through the doorway into another world like the discovery of the wardrobe that led to Narnia. All seasons feel this way to me, the way the soul grasps the significance of the slight turnings of the seasons before my rational mind attends to it. The pause as summer considers leaning into fall, of the new greens and muddy achievements of spring, of summer stretching out long and lean like a cat waking as spring wanes. And this, the doorway opening in November and I see the bones of trees again, the gray cool tone to the light thrown across the walls as curtains are pulled wide, the way the mind settles back, stirs the sediment of old thought and thinks, ah, right, it is time for this now. There is a gratefulness in winter, perhaps it is just the appreciation of warming blankets and sweaters, of steeping mugs of tea, of yellow light from the kitchen window as you pull into a dark and frosty driveway. But I think it is more - I think we feel what waits ahead, a necessary ending of all things, and winter graces us with the knowledge that there is beauty in such endings, there is such beauty that perhaps there is no need to hold on to whatever we might fear.
There is so much to be grateful for.
Happy Thanksgiving, everyone.