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

Icelandic

Dyed

Harness goat

Keeper

Perfect

In Halter

Duck

Bath

Rest

Driving

52 Weeks ~ New Beginnings (13/52)

RSiegel_Week13 - Baaaa!

Green Island

Lunch time

Wrong Nest

Spring fuzz

This is Where We Start

Phoebe's Field and distant Gryfe, ready for spring

Spring. Easter. Passover. Renewal.

You can feel it in the air, hear it, and smell it, can’t you?

Geese honking their way overhead: “Are we there yet?” “I swear we should have taken a right at that last river branch.”

Crocus shoots yawning and stretching, poking their pointy fingers up through the winter-hardened soil.

Tender leaf buds unfolding from reddened branches like summer sheets being shaken out for the first time since the fall.

The winter-shorn field lies stretched out like a blank page: Write on me. Make me into a story.

As any writer knows, the blank page offers its own special brand of terror. What if I’m not up to the challenge? What if I don’t know how to fill that blank page? Or what if I fill it with something ugly, untrue, sentimental, worthless?

Winter asks nothing of you other than to get through it. Hunker down, pull the blankets up, shovel the walk, move the wood inside, keep the water buckets unfrozen.

Spring, in its youthful, exuberance asks for everything. NOW! Take up where you dozed off last November. Plant the garden, muck the barn, clean the basement, paint the dingy hallway walls, renew hibernating friendships, make plans, create.

I recently unyoked myself from an obligation that weighed me down daily and made me dread Monday mornings the way I hadn’t in years. I have immediate plans to be busy, finishing up some other work projects and tackling some long-ignored house projects, but, after that, I plan to just…Stop.

For a bit.

For the first time in my working, adult life, I’ll be quiet and let the door of my imagination sit ajar for a bit to see what will pass through.

Maybe it will just be a brief rest before I take up the work I know how to do, or maybe it will give me the space to see the thing sitting on the horizon at a distance that’s meant for me. I really don’t know. I’m nervous as all get out. And a tiny bit excited.

A new beginning?

Let’s find out together.