Autumn Journal: What Remains is Radiant
One year ago today, I began this journal.
Today I finish, while I have the strength to do it well.
The year’s circle is complete.
My final reflection is about the freedom of release.
About how letting go becomes the blessing.
About how, in the unclenching, we discover what remains.
And what remains is radiant.
Autumn Journal: Kindness
Five hours of daylight have slipped away since midsummer.
Deer eat bark. The sun arrives later. Steam lifts from my coffee, then disappears.
This reflection is about winter’s quiet shift—
how we adapt, how we endure, how everything falls and rises again.
There is nothing to fear.
The leaf drifts down. The breath fades.
And still, the light shines through everything.
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: 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: 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: 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.
Summer Journal: This Bright Stillness
The valley wakes in song.
Cicadas, hummingbirds, dew-laced grass. A breath, a breeze. A moment.
This reflection is about letting go of clocks and stories—
and stepping into the luminous stillness beneath it all.
No coming. No going. No loss.
Only this sunlit sea. Only now.
Summer Journal: Thicket
My daughter has returned home.
A new husband. Two quiet cats.
We find ourselves together in a season of transition—
between continents, between careers, between life and death.
This reflection is about catbirds, tangled margins, and the wild grace of transition.
Where the stable gives way to the shifting. Where nothing endures, and everything grows.
We are all dwellers of the thicket—
becoming, dissolving, blooming again.
Summer Journal: Career
I’ve spent my life planning.
Careers. Companies. Calorie counts. Futures I may never see.
This piece is about the joy of the game—
and the quiet wisdom that comes when you realize the sun is setting on the field.
Play hard. Play well.
Then step off into starlight, laughter, and mosquitoes.
Summer Journal: Softness
This morning arrived wrapped in the rare softness that only exists between seasons.
Not quite spring. Not yet summer. Just this:
Fox kits in the bamboo. Violets in the grass.
Air like a rose petal against your cheek.
This reflection is about new life, quiet light, and the gentle power of a world waking up.