I’ve lost track of time, I think. How long have we lived in this place?
Part of the losing track comes from recognition of home, learning the rhythms of where we live. We’ve had overnight lows in the 20s recently. It’s finally dark enough to see the auror a when I’m up and getting breakfast ready. Fishing is tapering off, the berries are about done, and people are coming back with moose, caribou, and sheep.
Of course, I like this feeling that I know the equinox is coming and that everyone around me knows it, too. We’re a bit anxious about winter, but we’re also looking forward to skiing, snowshoeing, sledding—the excuses to double the hot chocolate and add a bit more brandy.
The patterns feel like an old rhythm, like patterns any of our ancestors would recognize, even if they wouldn’t recognize the snow tires and gore-tex. Or the planning for ways to protect iPods on a winter ramble.
Maybe it’s the gray that has me feeling expansive. Gray in the sky, gold on the leaves. A little woodsmoke. I think I’ll stop for wine on the way home. Join me, won’t you?