It’s that time of year again.
The chill gently bites, just below the skin.
From lush to shimmer and crimson, leaves whirl and dance.
And then they fall.
It’s a bit of a mystery.
Euphoric at the center, encased in something so inexplicably magic that words can’t properly illustrate. It’s a grieving vision of death, swallowing life, but followed by hope, knowing that life will recur. Faith that it will be more majestic than before.
It’s that time of pondering, of giving thanks. A season where dark settles early and warmth is found on the inside. A time to rewind the clock and paint our hearts with gratitude.
For some it comes naturally, like it’s cultivated, the benediction, the outflow of praise. For others it takes pain. When that biting cold rends to the soul. When all that was, is no longer. When all else fails. For some of us it takes standing at the heights of all that we know, and hurling all that we have into the abyss, all but a grateful heart.
And keeping only that.