"October Memories" (Image & Text Copyright Wylddane Productions, LLC)
The soft, gentle notes of Lara Downes at the piano, playing Prayer, spill their own mystical light across this dark and cloudy morning. At this hour, night still presses against the windows. I am grateful for the warmth of the wee cottage, for the comfort of a steaming mug of coffee beside me.
It is late October, and soon November will begin. Most of the deciduous trees have already let go of their leaves; only here and there remains a blaze of color. I have always preferred the meteorological calendar with winter beginning on December 1, for winter feels very near on mornings such as this. Autumn—my favorite season—always carries a thread of nostalgia, and a hint of melancholy.
Last night, drifting toward sleep, I heard the wind in the dry leaves through the open window. They whispered their stories of what has been—or perhaps sang the songs of late fall. Each season brings its lessons, but autumn in particular seems to carry the weight of memory. Bare branches stretch toward the sky like outstretched hands, and the ground rustles with dry leaves, as if time itself were brushing by.
This season is fleeting, and perhaps that is why it stirs such anticipatory nostalgia—the knowing that even as we live in this golden moment, it is already passing. Autumn’s slowing rhythm invites us to slow ourselves, to reflect, to hold space for the memories that rise unbidden: loving, rough, inspiring, painful, and sometimes simply ordinary. A riot of memory, like these woods ablaze with color, reflected in the quiet water of a lake.
And in these reflections I find compassion—not only for the sweetness of remembered joys, but also for the complicated textures of human life. Some memories are bright, some are shadowed, yet all are part of the fabric we carry. Just as autumn does not withhold its beauty even as leaves fall, so too can we hold both tenderness and sorrow together in our hearts.
This morning, gazing at the photograph of a sunny autumn day, I find myself both stilled and lifted. The season teaches me again to be present—to see beauty, to honor memory, to carry forward compassion. And in that, there is light.
“The song of autumn is written in golden leaves and whispered winds.” ~Wylddane
~Wylddane
It is late October, and soon November will begin. Most of the deciduous trees have already let go of their leaves; only here and there remains a blaze of color. I have always preferred the meteorological calendar with winter beginning on December 1, for winter feels very near on mornings such as this. Autumn—my favorite season—always carries a thread of nostalgia, and a hint of melancholy.
Last night, drifting toward sleep, I heard the wind in the dry leaves through the open window. They whispered their stories of what has been—or perhaps sang the songs of late fall. Each season brings its lessons, but autumn in particular seems to carry the weight of memory. Bare branches stretch toward the sky like outstretched hands, and the ground rustles with dry leaves, as if time itself were brushing by.
This season is fleeting, and perhaps that is why it stirs such anticipatory nostalgia—the knowing that even as we live in this golden moment, it is already passing. Autumn’s slowing rhythm invites us to slow ourselves, to reflect, to hold space for the memories that rise unbidden: loving, rough, inspiring, painful, and sometimes simply ordinary. A riot of memory, like these woods ablaze with color, reflected in the quiet water of a lake.
And in these reflections I find compassion—not only for the sweetness of remembered joys, but also for the complicated textures of human life. Some memories are bright, some are shadowed, yet all are part of the fabric we carry. Just as autumn does not withhold its beauty even as leaves fall, so too can we hold both tenderness and sorrow together in our hearts.
This morning, gazing at the photograph of a sunny autumn day, I find myself both stilled and lifted. The season teaches me again to be present—to see beauty, to honor memory, to carry forward compassion. And in that, there is light.
“The song of autumn is written in golden leaves and whispered winds.” ~Wylddane
~Wylddane
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