Autumn Journal: Fullness

The first true autumn morning arrived, carried on cool air and chickadee song. This reflection is about the season of fullness— when summer’s fire fades, fruit falls, and the world prepares to empty itself. But not yet. Not yet.

Autumn Journal: Equinox

Today, darkness and light share the sky in perfect balance. The forest pauses—arms full of summer’s light, already learning to let go. This reflection is about the fall equinox, autumn’s quiet generosity, and the grace of open hands. Spring gives us flowers. Autumn fills our pockets. Letting go is not an ending— it’s the fruit.

Autumn Journal: The Between

After the drought, gentle rain. The stream whispers. The forest breathes. And from the withered ground, asters bloom like stars. This reflection is about flowers that rise not despite the coming cold, but because of it. This is the sacred between: not quite ending, not quite beginning. Just bloom. Just breath. Just now

Autumn Journal: Robin

Rain falls softly. Not the downpour of summer, but a patient drizzle that draws a veil across the valley. This reflection is about robins at work in the softened ground— not nesting, not singing, just migrating one worm at a time. Each bird, a fleeting body in an eternal chorus. Rain into rain. Life into life.

Intermission (hopefully)

Two weeks in the hospital. A ventilator. Silence. Fear. Then—something else. This reflection is about suffering, stillness, and the luminous awareness beneath the self. Not escape. Not denial. A tuning. A remembering. The body may fail. But the deeper self—vast, radiant, interconnected—remains.

Autumn Journal: Black Walnut

They fall like green cannonballs—Black Walnuts pounding the forest floor, their hard gifts wrapped in bitterness and dye. This reflection is about what grows in consequence— how every squirrel, fern, fox, and fallen nut tells a deeper story of unity, shaped by starlight, soil, and time. Wait. Let the husk rot. Crack the shell. Light waits within.

Autumn Journal: Treefrog

A treefrog rests on the patio railing. I rest beside it. Both of us drawn to the last warmth of an unseasonably golden autumn day. This reflection is about what happens when you pause long enough to share light with another fragile life— and how even illness, like winter, might just be another kind of transformation. All gifts are borrowed. That’s what makes them shine.

Autumn Journal: Aurora

It’s been a remarkable year for sky— rainbows in spring, an eclipse in April, and now, autumn’s faint aurora rising above the valley. This reflection is about what we expect from wonder… and what it means to witness something rare, even if it whispers instead of roars. Sometimes, the night shines softly. Sometimes, that’s enough.

Autumn Journal: Golden Hour

Sunrise sets the valley ablaze—trees become torches, a doe turns to gold, and birds fill the air with coins of sound. And then… rain. Silence. Letting go. This reflection is about how beauty arrives without warning, and departs without apology. And how, in its passing, it burns with the brilliance of the eternal.

Autumn Journal: Yellowjacket

Today felt like summer. The maple leaves burned red, and hornets circled the last tomatoes. This reflection is about the dying members of a broken home — their hunger, their panic, their separateness. And how, if we look closely, we might see something familiar in their flight. Chasing sweetness. Fearing frost.

Autumn Journal: A Reaving Wind

The wind returned today. Leaves that had clung through weeks of stillness now spin through the valley—spiraling, tumbling, letting go. This reflection is about what trees already know, what autumn teaches in color and wind: we are not separate. We are part of it. Falling. Flying. Both.

Autumn Journal: Feast

This was not a good year for acorns. No feast, no rustle of plenty beneath the oaks. Just empty branches and quiet ground. This reflection is about wild turkeys, acorns, and the deep wisdom of feast and famine, the rhythm of everything. Accept the feast. Accept the famine. Let go.

Twilight Journal