There is a certain quality of afternoon light this time of year. A warm, mellow, golden autumnal glow.
There is a way the light filters down through the trees, like all the energy and activity of a whole year stored in branches and roots and bark, suddenly burst forth in sunshine yellow brightness.
There is an excitement to this season of slow death. A vibrancy of newness and transformation.
* * *
Or hadn’t you noticed? Had you been too anxious, caught between a heavy past and an ambiguous future, limbs shaking and guts stripped bare? Had you been so nervously casting your wide net, trying to catch that glimmering, shimmering thing off in the distance, that you failed to see the gentle ripples you’d been making had turned to violent waves, arms thrashing, and you about to go under?
Me too, Friends. Me too.