Resting in this moment

Dahlia 2

October, it’s not your fault that you live next door to November (rude neighbors, always shouting cold wind until late into the night, leaving their dead leaves and bare, broken twigs on your lawn, slamming their doors, scaring the birds. Entirely uncivilized behavior). I would wholeheartedly adore you otherwise.

You’re full of obvious charms that everyone seems to love about fall (insert here the orange pumpkins, the soup, the snuggly sweaters, the excuse to stay in bed with a thick book). I’m not immune to your beauty.

It’s me, not you. It’s just my failure to be zen, to live in your Froot-Loops-colored, slanting sunlit moment. Instead, my eyes are focused on what comes next. You’re tugging at my hem telling me to look and I’m distractedly wondering where the snow shovel is and wondering when the snow tires should go on the car.

But Saturday. Oh, Saturday! You were a perfect October day, beginning with a chance to browse the farmers’ market, bursting with the last blooms of the pre-frost fields. Then on to the annual Sheep & Wool Festival in the water-colored Tunbridge hills.

Sheep, goats, alpacas, llamas. Sheepdogs, yarn, felting kits, roving. Friends, fried dough, french fries. All this and the chance to sit on a still-green hillside with the sun against our backs, watching the festivities below. Just enough shade to feel a slight chill. Just enough sun to feel gently baked.

Saturday was a perfect October day.

And then Sunday was even better… I’ll tell you why soon.

Tunbridge hills

Isn't weird enough



Harness goat



In Halter





October, beguile us in the way you know

Connecticut River


O hushed October morning mild,
Thy leaves have ripened to the fall;
Tomorrow’s wind, if it be wild,
Should waste them all.
The crows above the forest call;
Tomorrow they may form and go.
O hushed October morning mild,
Begin the hours of this day slow.
Make the day seem to us less brief.
Hearts not averse to being beguiled,
Beguile us in the way you know.
Release one leaf at break of day;
At noon release another leaf;
One from our trees, one far away.
Retard the sun with gentle mist;
Enchant the land with amethyst.
Slow, slow!
For the grapes’ sake, if they were all,
Whose leaves already are burnt with frost,
Whose clustered fruit must else be lost—
For the grapes’ sake along the wall.

–Robert Frost, from A Boy’s Will, 1913