“Whatever season we are living, there is still light for us to receive—and light for us to give.”
~Wylddane

It is still dark outside.

Why this continues to surprise me is something of a mystery. At this hour, darkness has a nearly perfect attendance record. Yet every morning I glance toward the window as though dawn might have made an exception on my behalf.

So far, no special arrangements have been offered.

Here in the wee cottage, however, there is light enough to begin. The desk lamp casts its familiar pool of warmth. Steam rises from my mug, carrying that wonderful fragrance which assures me that civilization remains possible. And before me is a photograph of a golden tree beside the river—a little October sunlight brought indoors, waiting patiently for me to notice.

This morning, music joins the gathering.

Although classical music and jazz have long been companions of mine, lately I have found myself listening to contemporary vocalists. Now the deep baritone of Anthony Jollett, singing “Midnight is Mine,” fills the quiet.

Outside my window, midnight appears to have retained possession of the premises.

The music lifts me. Where, exactly, I could not say. At this hour, I am grateful simply to be lifted; a detailed itinerary would be asking too much.

I take another sip of coffee and let the song carry me back to Sunday’s wandering.

Some outings linger long after we return home. We put away the keys, take off our jackets, attend to the ordinary business of living, yet a part of us remains beside the water. We can still hear the rapids. Still feel the wind moving through the branches and the October chill finding its way beneath a collar.

I remember golden trees, dark rushing water, rocks holding their place against the current. The river broke into bright ripples around them, then gathered itself and continued downstream. Above it, leaves caught the light beneath a sky deepening toward evening.

There was poetry everywhere.

I did not have to understand it all. Standing there, listening, was enough.

And there was that tree.

Its golden canopy seemed to hold a warmth of its own. Against the cool sky and the dark water, every leaf appeared more luminous. Some branches were already bare; others still carried their small wealth of sunlight. The season was changing before my eyes, and the tree was beautiful in the midst of it.

Perhaps that is why I have carried it home in my thoughts.

We are so often encouraged to admire beginnings: the fresh leaf, the young face, the unopened door, the life with everything still ahead of it. There is wonder in those things. But autumn asks us to linger over another kind of beauty—the beauty of a life that has weathered something.

A face made tender by experience. A friendship deepened over decades. The courage to be ourselves after years of trying to earn permission. The ability, learned slowly, to sit beside someone in sorrow without rushing to fill the silence.

These things have their own radiance.

I am finding, as the years accumulate, that there are pleasures I once hurried past. An unhurried conversation. Music in a quiet room. A tree beside a river. Apparently, I needed several decades to become qualified to stand still.

My knees would like credit for assisting with that education.

Yet the longer I look at this golden tree, the less inclined I am to reserve its meaning for the later years of life.

We pass through seasons of change at every age. A young person leaving the familiar world of home. Someone beginning again after a relationship ends. A parent learning to live with an empty room. A person setting down a dream that no longer fits, unsure what might take its place.

There are autumns within every lifetime.

And some of them are difficult. I would not ask a golden leaf to explain away anyone’s grief. There are changes we would never choose, losses we cannot make lovely by finding the right words.

Still, beauty sometimes reaches us there.

A friend calls at the right moment. A song makes room for a feeling we have been unable to name. We step outside on a troubled afternoon and find sunlight in the branches. For a little while, our attention loosens its grip on what hurts, and we discover that the world still has something to offer us.

That small opening can matter.

Beside the river on Sunday, the leaves shone while the water hurried past. Neither waited for the other. The tree stood in its changing season, and the river carried its reflections downstream.

I think about how much energy I have spent wishing certain moments would remain exactly as they were. Beautiful afternoons. Beloved company. Versions of myself I understood better than the one I was becoming.

It is a very human wish.

But this morning, the photograph gives me another possibility: to love a moment fully while it is here. To let its beauty enter me so deeply that something of it remains when the afternoon ends, when the leaves fall, when the road brings me home.

Sunday is over. Yet I can still hear the river.

Outside my window, dawn has not quite arrived. Inside, the lamp glows, the music continues, and that golden tree keeps me company. I cannot know what this day will ask of me. Most mornings, I barely know what I will ask of breakfast.

But I can begin with attention. I can carry a little patience into the day, offer a little kindness, leave room for something unexpected to delight me.

And perhaps, whatever season we find ourselves in, we can remember that we still have light to give. The warmth of our welcome. The honesty of our presence. The wisdom we have gathered, however unevenly, along the way.

For now, my coffee mug needs refilling. Even a modest revelation requires adequate supplies.

I rise from the desk with the tree still on my mind: golden above the dark water, its branches open to the October sky.

The day begins.
​
I intend to notice it.

~Wylddane

“Leave a little room in the day for wonder; it often waits just beyond the familiar turn.”
~Wylddane

How did it ever get to be Monday already?

I am reasonably certain there was a weekend here a moment ago. Apparently, it slipped out while I was making coffee.

Outside the window, darkness still holds the wee cottage in its quiet embrace. Here at my desk, lamplight makes a small, welcoming world. Music drifts through the room. My coffee is warm, and nothing yet requires an immediate answer.

This seems an appropriate moment to consider eternity.

I have often thought that time is our human attempt to measure it—to divide something immeasurable into hours, days, weeks, and years, then put appointments in the little squares. But what, exactly, is eternity?

I take another sip of coffee.

Perhaps eternity can wait until I have had a refill.

For now, there is this morning. There is the comfort of being here to greet it. And there is the possibility of a little backroads wandering later today.

We shall see. I like a day that leaves room for those three words.

October is the golden hour of the open road. A familiar county highway becomes a passage through light and color, and a turn taken almost on a whim can lead to something that stays with us long after we return home.
The northwoods are especially generous with such discoveries.

Sugar maples lift their orange and crimson branches over the road. Oaks deepen into rust and bronze. Here and there, a yellow tree catches the sunlight so completely that it seems to be holding a small piece of the sun. Around the next bend, another hillside comes into view, and whatever thought had been occupying the mind quietly loses its place.

The October sun travels lower now, laying long shadows across the pavement. Its honeyed light touches old barns, fence posts, and fields resting after harvest. Even an ordinary mailbox looks as though it might have a story worth hearing.

I suspect most things do, if we give them enough time.

A passing car sends fallen leaves tumbling into the air. They whirl briefly in the rearview mirror, a little celebration thrown by nobody in particular.

I roll down the window a bit. Cool air enters, carrying the scent of leaves, earth, and distant woodsmoke. Somewhere, geese are calling. Somewhere, someone has lit a fire against the chill.

When the pavement gives way to gravel, even the tires seem to change their conversation.

There is pleasure in this unhurried attention. I can pull over where it is safe, sit for a moment, and let the landscape finish whatever it has begun to say. No great revelation is required. Sometimes a stand of golden trees is quite enough.

At this stage of life, I appreciate an outing whose chief accomplishment is having enjoyed it.

The photograph of the St. Croix River in Blaine Township brings that feeling back to me. One glance, and I remember standing there, looking across the water, allowing the moment to hold my attention. The wandering continues here at my desk. Something of that afternoon has come home with me.

Perhaps that is one of the gifts of paying attention: a beautiful moment becomes available to us again.

On a difficult day, we may remember sunlight on water. In a hurried hour, we may recall a quiet road. A photograph, a scent, a few notes of music can open a door we thought had closed.

And we need these small openings.

Most of our days are made of ordinary things. Coffee to brew. Dishes to wash. Errands to run. Someone to think about, perhaps someone to call. Yet within those familiar hours, there is room to look up, to linger, to receive a little more of the world.

We can take a walk without counting the steps. Listen without preparing our reply. Notice the tree outside a window before its branches are bare. Allow a pleasant moment to last a little longer before moving on.

October offers plenty of encouragement. Its beauty is changing even as we admire it. A leaf loosens, turns in the air, and settles on the ground. I cannot make the season stay, but I can be here while it passes.

That seems a worthwhile way to greet any day.

Perhaps I will wander the backroads this afternoon. Perhaps I will stay close to the wee cottage and find that the maple in the yard has something new to show me.

For now, the music continues, dawn is on its way, and my coffee mug needs attention.

As I rise, the old man reflected in the window rises too.

Methinks he is here to stay.
​
Well, then. He might as well come along. There is still so much to see.

~Wylddane

“On the Namekagon, you don't fight the current; you let the river strip away everything you forgot to leave on the shore.”
~Anonymous

It is still dark outside.

The wee cottage holds its warmth around me. Music drifts through the room, the desk lamp lays its familiar pool of light across the morning, and my mug of coffee stands within easy reach. There are worse arrangements for beginning a day. I have experienced several of them, usually involving an alarm clock and expectations.

For now, I am content. Yet I find myself looking forward to dawn—to that first quiet thinning of the darkness, when the trees begin to return to their places and the world beyond the window slowly becomes visible.

Earlier, just as I was waking, an owl called softly through the open window.

There is something comforting about that sound. Somewhere in the darkness, another living creature was going about its life, untroubled by whether I had accomplished enough yesterday or knew what to do with today. I lay still and listened.

Then another calling made itself known: the desire to get up and start the coffee maker.

My soul may respond to the owl, but the rest of me appreciates clear instructions.

And now, here I am—with warm coffee in my hands and a river still running through my thoughts.

Yesterday, my backroads wandering carried me north into the country of the Namekagon. Along the river, autumn had gathered in gold and rust beneath a cool, clouded sky. The wind moved through the trees. Water hurried over rocks, breaking into white ripples, then drawing itself together again downstream.

In the middle of that movement stood a small island, its trees blazing yellow.

I stopped.

There are places that make stopping seem like the most sensible thing a person can do.

The river flowed on either side of the island, carrying flickers of gold across its dark surface. Leaves framed the view overhead; fallen leaves lay at my feet. The cold wind found its way into my jacket, reminding me that even a deeply spiritual experience benefits from another layer.

I listened to the swift water.

And beneath it, somehow, I heard quiet.

A spacious quiet, in which each sound had room to be itself: water against stone, wind through branches, the faint rustle of a leaf letting go.

The Namekagon travels roughly a hundred miles through northern Wisconsin toward the St. Croix, winding through forest and rural country, around islands and over rocky shallows. Its waters are protected within the St. Croix National Scenic Riverway. Standing beside it, I felt grateful that there are still places where a river has room to follow its own course.

Its name carries an older belonging: “place of the sturgeon,” from the Ojibwe language. These waters and the portages connecting them have long been part of Ojibwe life, travel, and trade. Later came fur traders and the logging era, leaving their own marks along the river.

I stood there as a brief visitor in a place with a history far deeper than my afternoon.

That awareness settled something in me.

So much of daily life encourages us to make ourselves the center of every passing concern. We carry yesterday’s awkward conversation, tomorrow’s uncertainty, the news, the unfinished task. We rehearse what we should have said. We attempt to solve matters that have not yet happened.

I am remarkably industrious at this sort of thing. Give me a peaceful afternoon and I can furnish it with several unnecessary worries.

But beside the Namekagon, my thoughts gradually loosened their grip.

There was water to hear. There was color to see. There was cold air to breathe.

For a little while, that was enough.

The familiar words came to mind: “Into the forest I go, to lose my mind and find my soul.”

I understood the feeling. The busy part of my mind—the part forever making lists and offering unsolicited commentary—grew quiet enough for me to notice how good it felt simply to be there.

The river did not stop at the stones. It gathered, divided, slipped around them, and continued.

I watched it for a long time.

Perhaps some of the burdens we carry could be met with that same patience. A disappointment may require time. A grief may remain with us, even as life finds room to move around it. An uncertainty may have to accompany us for a while before an answer appears.

We can take the next step without knowing the whole journey.

And we can set down a few things before we go: the demand to do everything perfectly, the habit of scolding ourselves, the belief that a beautiful moment must be earned by finishing all our work first.

That little island of gold had caught my attention in the midst of swift water. This morning, it returns to me as an invitation to notice what is steady and nourishing in my own life—the warmth of this cottage, the music, the people I love, the pleasure of waking to another day.

Such things deserve our attention while they are here.

I take another sip of coffee.

Outside, dawn is still on its way. Inside, yesterday’s river remains close. I can almost hear the water spilling over the rocks, almost feel the wind in the trees.

Before I begin the day, I pause.

We may not all have a Northwoods river within reach this morning. But perhaps there is a window we can stand beside, a patch of sky, a tree along the sidewalk, a few quiet minutes before the day gathers speed.

Perhaps we can give ourselves those minutes.

Let our shoulders settle. Let one needless worry rest. Remember that we belong to a world larger than the thoughts circling in our heads.

Then begin again, with a little more room within us for kindness, for wonder, for whatever this day may bring.

The owl has offered its greeting. The coffee has done its part.
​
And somewhere beyond the wee cottage, the Namekagon is moving through the October woods, carrying the gold of autumn downstream.

~Wylddane

“Through the country of dreams, we are carried to the gift of another day.”  ~Wylddane

Yesterday was one of those achingly beautiful October days when every tree in Lone Pine seemed to have been given its own spotlight. Around a bend, beside a house, along an otherwise unremarkable stretch of road—another blaze of color. Even familiar places invited a second look.

In the backyard of the wee cottage, the maple was putting on a particularly splendid performance. I took its picture, although a photograph can only hold so much. There is something about standing beneath a tree alive with autumn color that must be felt: the cool air, the faint rustle overhead, the awareness that you have arrived in time to witness something fleeting.

This morning, however, the world beyond my window is dark. Very dark. October has apparently decided that dawn should keep more leisurely hours.

The heat is on, taking the chill out of the wee cottage. Music moves gently through the room. My desk lamp casts its reassuring pool of light, and beside me sits a mug of coffee, steaming and black and admirably committed to its responsibilities.

I gaze into the window and discover that the pesky old man is back.

I lift my coffee in a small salute.

He does the same.

The nerve.

Many years ago, at about this time of year, I invested in a sleigh bed. I loved its graceful shape, its suggestion of winter journeys and storybook nights. I imagined drifting off into magical dreams, carried somewhere wonderful while the ordinary world slept.

It was an investment I have never regretted.

What I did not realize then was that its most extraordinary journey would be the one it makes every night: carrying me through sleep and delivering me to another day.

No sleigh bells. No dramatic arrival. Occasionally a rather undignified search for my slippers. But there I am, awake again, with another morning before me.

The older I become, the more remarkable that seems.

Before I have accomplished anything, before I have answered a message or made a plan, I have already received something precious. I have awakened. There is warmth in the house, coffee to brew, music to hear. Somewhere beyond the darkness, that maple waits.

I am here to see it.

Today’s forecast calls for clouds and a good chance of afternoon rain. I still intend to do a little backroads wandering. At this point, the leaves are so brilliant that they scarcely require assistance from the sun. Beneath a gray sky, their reds and golds seem to gather a quieter intensity, glowing against the weather.

And should the rain arrive, perhaps I will hear it ticking against the windshield while I pause beside a stretch of glorious woods.

There are worse ways to spend an October afternoon. I have personally tried several.

These days invite us to pay attention, and I find myself thinking about the ways people have long understood the turning year through the life around them. Ojibwe names for October include Binaakwe-giizis, the Falling Leaves Moon; names vary among Anishinaabe communities, reflecting their environments and traditions. Even the name asks me to look up from the calendar and notice what the trees are doing.

I am also drawn to a published retelling about Nanabozho and his grandmother, Nokomis. Given paints by Nokomis, Nanabozho brings color into the world. An attempt to reach a sparrow in a tree ends in a tumble, spilling his paints among the leaves—a mishap that becomes autumn beauty.

There is something wonderfully companionable about that image: beauty arriving through an accident.

My own mishaps generally require a paper towel, but I appreciate the possibility.

Looking at my maple, I carry away a thought of my own. Perhaps I can meet this season with gratitude for the whole of it: the brilliance overhead, the leaves loosening from their branches, the quiet work beginning beneath them.

A fallen leaf still belongs to the tree’s story. Slowly, it becomes part of the soil that supports another season of growth.

And I belong here, too.

I am part of this October morning, breathing its chilly air, warmed by shelter, nourished by things I did not create. The tree outside my window and the man sitting inside it are both living through another turn of the year.

One of us is managing the changes with considerably more elegance.

Still, there is something to learn beneath those branches. To offer what beauty we can. To make room for rest. To let gratitude accompany the ache of passing time.

Yesterday’s sunlight has gone, but I remember it. Today’s weather will bring its own small discoveries. Soon enough, I will be out on a backroad, slowing down because a stand of maples has made it impossible to hurry.

For now, I sit in the wee cottage, surrounded by warmth, lamplight, music, and the comforting fragrance of coffee.

Blessed.

Paying attention.

Delivered safely from the country of dreams into the possibility of another day.

It is time to refill my mug. As I start to stand, I glance toward the window.

Sure enough, that old fellow is getting up, too.

Damn.

Perhaps I should pour him a cup.
​
He looks as though he could use one.

~Wylddane

It is dark and foggy again this morning. Beyond the window behind my desk, September is spending its last morning wrapped in something I cannot see through. Here inside the wee cottage, there is light, warmth, music, and a mug of coffee close enough to qualify as an essential relationship.

There is also that old fellow in the window.

He has been showing up rather regularly. I have tried ignoring him, but he seems remarkably committed to our acquaintance. This morning I wonder whether it might be time to make peace with him. After all, he has accompanied me through quite a few Septembers. He looks as though he might have a story or two.

Possibly even some advice, although I hope he waits until I have finished my coffee.

Today is the last day of September, and I find myself pausing over that small fact.

There was a time when the end of a month meant little more than turning a calendar page, paying a bill, or wondering how I had managed to accomplish so little in thirty apparently generous days. These days, an ending asks me to linger. A season begins to close, and somewhere beneath my appreciation is a quiet question: Will I see this again?

I do not ask it with dread. It comes gently, alongside gratitude. Life has always been uncertain; growing older simply makes that uncertainty harder to file away under “things to think about later.”

And yet, as far as I know, I still have a whole lot of living to do. There are friends to welcome, stories to write, autumn afternoons to wander through, and pies that will require my thoughtful supervision.

Awareness need not spoil the pleasure. Sometimes it is what allows us to taste it fully.

September has been a bridge beneath our feet. We stepped onto it carrying summer—the flowers, the warmth, the long evenings—and somewhere along the way the light changed. Shadows lengthened. Leaves began gathering color. The air offered the first small promises of October.

How beautiful that softer light can be. It falls across familiar things and makes us look again.

I think of the begonia in my photograph, its petals unfolding in shades of amber, apricot, and flame. There is such richness in those folds, such warmth against the green around them. Looking at it, I feel no need to hurry past its beauty toward whatever comes next. For this moment, it is here.

And so am I.

Perhaps that is something age can teach us, if we let it: how to stay with what we love long enough to know we have loved it. How to notice the light on a flower, the warmth of a room, the familiar voice of a friend. How to stop treating ordinary days as the space between important occasions.

Outside, the trees are beginning their work of release. I watch them and consider what I might loosen my own grip on: an old resentment, an unnecessary worry, the exhausting belief that I should somehow have become a finished person by now.

Apparently, there is still work to be done. The gentleman in the window confirms this.

But there is grace in allowing ourselves to remain unfinished. We can carry our years without carrying every burden those years have handed us. We can make room for a little more peace.

That matters especially now, when cruelty is so loud and the news so often leaves us frightened, angry, or weary. There are mornings when the troubles of the world seem to be hammering at the door before the coffee has even brewed.

These quiet moments help me gather myself. Music fills the room. Warm light rests on the desk. Beyond the open window, a bluejay delivers an opinion with considerable force and absolutely no invitation.

I listen. I smile. My world becomes large enough to hold something besides fear.

A thought shared by Unity of Houston has stayed with me:

“The fact that you're still choosing love in a world that keeps giving you reasons not to is one of the most radical spiritual acts there is.”

I want to carry that with me.

Into this day. Into October. Into whatever days I am given.

I want it to shape the way I speak, the patience I offer, the person I stand beside. Love becomes useful through our actions: checking on someone who lives alone, defending someone being mistreated, listening without preparing a rebuttal, making room at the table. Sometimes it asks for courage. Sometimes it asks us to put down our phones and pay attention.

We may never know how far one kindness travels. We can still send it on its way.

I take another sip of coffee. It needs warming, although it remains a wonderful companion—like several of us who have reached this stage of life.

The fellow in the window lifts his mug when I lift mine.

All right, then. We will greet the day together.

Goodbye, September. Thank you for the light, the color, the rain, the moments I noticed, and the ones I almost missed.

May I welcome October with open eyes and a willing heart. May we all find something beautiful to attend to, something needless to release, and someone who needs the love we have to give.
​
And may that love, carried into the world through the lives we live, help turn the tide against cruelty—one brave, ordinary act at a time.

~Wylddane

“The woods do not ask us to hold on to autumn. They ask us to be here while it passes.”  ~Wylddane

Yes, it is dark once again. The morning is mild enough that I have the window behind my desk open. I cannot see a thing through it, but I can hear the wind moving through the trees. It sounds restless, as though it has somewhere to be and cannot quite remember where.

We may get rain today, though the chances of a good, soaking rain seem to be slipping away. The severe drought continues, and the forecast offers little reason to think it will end soon. I take a sip of coffee and lean back in my chair.

There he is again in the window: that old man looking back at me. Who is he? He is wearing a different shirt this morning.

Oh. So am I.

I decide to ignore him. This has become our usual arrangement.

The wind, meanwhile, makes me want to walk through the September woods. A rainy walk would be especially lovely, if the sky could be persuaded to cooperate. Even without rain, the woods have much to say this time of year, provided I am willing to slow down and listen.

The first fallen leaves would crunch beneath my boots. Above me, others would still be holding to their branches, gold and crimson catching the low morning light. Soon enough the wind will carry them away. The trees seem to know how to let go without making a speech about it. I could learn something from them.

Beneath the leaves, the earth is already preparing for its long rest. Acorns are gathering along the paths. Seeds are finding their way into the soil. A mushroom may appear overnight on a fallen log, a small and surprising kingdom rising from what seemed to be finished. The forest keeps working, even as it grows quiet.

As the summer green thins, I might see the shape of a branch I had overlooked all season, or an old stone wall hidden behind the undergrowth. Change reveals things as well as takes them away. And this particular morning—the light, the wind, the leaves still clinging to the trees—will never come again quite as it is now.

Perhaps that is what I would bring home from a walk: the reminder to be here for the day I have been given. To notice its beauty, to gather what will sustain me, and to allow myself seasons of rest as readily as seasons of growth.

So, shall I go? I still cannot decide. My coffee mug needs refilling, and I have found that more coffee often helps me ponder the imponderable. It has yet to solve one, but I remain hopeful.
​
And so begins this September day.
​
~Wylddane

“Notice that autumn is more the season of the soul than of nature.”
~Friedrich Nietzsche

Once again, it is dark outside the wee cottage. A dense fog advisory is in effect, and a glance through the window confirms that the fog has taken the advisory seriously. It presses against the glass and makes the early morning darkness seem deeper still.

The old man I noticed in the window’s reflection yesterday has returned. I consider him for a moment, then turn my attention to the warm pool of lamplight, the tender notes of Grieg’s The Wounded Heart, and my delicious mug of coffee. He can stay if he likes, but I am not giving him the chair.

There is a quiet luxury in this moment: music, good health, good coffee, and nowhere else I need to be.

Amish families live in and around Lone Pine, and the sound of a horse and carriage passing the wee cottage is familiar to me. Sometimes, as I am drifting off to sleep, I hear the steady rhythm of hooves on the road. I think it may be Sunday evenings, though I have never kept track. Perhaps they are returning from a gathering. I listen until the carriage has passed, grateful for that gentle reminder that there are other ways to move through the world.

Autumn offers reminders like that to every sense, if I remember to pay attention. The woods turn orange, red, and gold. The lower sun reaches beneath the branches and draws long shadows across the yard. There is the earthy smell of damp leaves, the faint smoke of a woodstove somewhere nearby, and, with any luck, the scent of apples and cinnamon coming from my own kitchen. Underfoot, fallen leaves make their marvelous crackling sound. Overhead, geese announce their departure with considerably less concern for the hour than I would prefer.

Then there is the first clean chill against my face after summer’s humid weight. It sends me indoors for a sweater, another cup of coffee, and perhaps a blanket. I have become quite skilled at embracing autumn’s demands.

On some October nights, a large amber moon rises over the fields and brings back memories of hayrides. A wind moves through thinning branches with a sound all its own. I can understand why people have long imagined stories in this season: a spirit setting the woods ablaze with its last bright colors, or some cheerful mischief maker dashing among the trees with a paintbrush dipped in sunset.

I like to imagine that creature at work beyond the cottage. There is room for a little magic in my understanding of the world, even if its tools are sunlight, weather, and leaves.

I take another sip of coffee and notice that the fog has begun to brighten. Beyond the window stands an oak tree that seemed green yesterday. This morning, it is a blaze of rusty orange.

I could try to explain exactly when it changed. Instead, I think I will sit here awhile and admire it.
​
And so begins this day.

~Wylddane

“It is remarkable how closely the history of the apple tree is connected with that of man.”
~Henry David Thoreau

The darkness lingers against the windows of the wee cottage this morning. A Mozart piano concerto keeps me company, its notes soft one moment and quite certain of themselves the next. My coffee is hot and black. For now, the window behind my desk is a mirror, and when I glance into it, an old man glances back.

“How the hell did that happen?” I ask him.

He offers no explanation. Sensible fellow.

A few days ago, I stopped at the local market for supplies and found a big bag of McIntosh apples. They are finally in season. I brought them home with considerably more excitement than a person ought to feel about groceries, though I make no apology for it. Their sweet, tart fragrance speaks of autumn before I have even taken a bite.

It also takes me back to evenings with my parents, eating apples while we watched television. McIntoshes were their favorites, too. I remember them buying apples by the bushel from local farmers, and the pleasant certainty that something good would come of it. Perhaps an apple eaten out of hand. Perhaps something warm from the oven. At the moment, I have ambitions involving Autumn Apple Cake, Cranberry Apple Raisin Pie, and Cranberry Applesauce. If you feel similarly ambitious, the recipes are here on the blog: open the Recipes tab and search for “apple.”

The McIntosh has its own unlikely story. In 1811, John McIntosh found apple seedlings while clearing land near Dundela, Ontario. One remarkable tree survived and bore the fruit his family would go on to share through grafting. A seed from a McIntosh produces a new, unpredictable apple; grafting preserves the variety. So the apples in my kitchen trace their lineage to that one tree in a Canadian clearing. 

It even lent its name, with a change in spelling, to the Macintosh computer. I admire a fruit with that kind of range, although I have yet to persuade a laptop to make applesauce. 

But this morning I am less interested in what the McIntosh accomplished than in what it reminds me to do: enjoy what is here while it is here. Its season always feels brief. By winter, I will be wishing I had bought one more bag, baked one more cake, or paused long enough to savor an ordinary apple at the kitchen counter.

For now, the apples are here. So is this lovely late September morning, arriving quietly around the wee cottage.

I take another sip of coffee. The sky has lightened, and the old man has disappeared from the window. I suspect he is still around, but I am content to let him mind his own business. I have a grocery list to amend.

Butter. Flour. Sugar.
​
And so starts this day.

~Wylddane

“Be where you are; otherwise you will miss your life.”   ~Buddha

Darkness presses against the window behind my desk, but the wee cottage is full of warm light and music. My mug of coffee is close at hand—steaming, black, and full of the persuasive flavor required to convince me that morning has begun.

Yesterday afternoon, I looked into the backyard and found a tree ablaze with color. I had not gone looking for an autumn spectacle. There it was, just beyond the cottage, reminding me that at this time of year one need not walk far to enter a wonderland.

September is drawing to a close. The days shorten, the mornings carry a crackly chill, and fallen leaves lend their scent to the air. Soon enough, there will be bare branches where yesterday’s color shone. Perhaps that is why I want to pay attention while it is here: to the fresh apples, the thought of warm cider, and the low amber sunlight that makes even an ordinary afternoon feel briefly golden.

In the old rhythm of harvest, this is a season for gathering in and slowing down. The trees seem to understand it. They release their leaves when the time comes, making no argument with the wind. I cannot claim to be quite so graceful about letting things go. I have been known to carry a worry well past its useful life, then wonder why my arms are tired.

But this morning asks nothing of me except that I be here. Yesterday’s burdens can wait outside the pool of lamplight. For now, there is coffee, music, and the memory of a blazing tree in my own backyard.
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The changing colors remind me that an ending can be beautiful without ceasing to be an ending. Autumn makes room for what comes next, even as it asks us to cherish what is here. So I will take another sip of coffee and welcome this new day. September has not finished with us yet.

~Wylddane