descent

In still, quiet places, I am invited to enter a place of safety. The door opens, and everything stops.

My mind pauses, my soul can speak, and my heart can hear.

​In the quiet, I find a place I can always come home to, and find my rest.

​I am found, and comforted, and held in that place where I am enough.

​

MW, September 2020

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I love the journey from summer into autumn. Don't get me wrong: I don't hate summer. It's such a delight with its sunshine and long days. Summer practically begs me to celebrate each day, inviting me out to jam in as much fun as I can fit in. There's a sense of urgency to get out on my paddle board, to head to the beach, to meet with friends, and just enjoy every last moment of the sun and the heat and the upbeat energy of the season.

Some people mourn the loss of summer. I know I used to. Every year I was filled with an overwhelming sense of doom starting at Summer Solstice as I noticed the days shortening. And once Labour Day came, a deep sense of despair would arrive with the knowing that rain and dark days and general misery were at hand. I wanted no part of summer leaving, preferring to live in my dreamy world of sunshine and long days forever.

But no longer. Now, as I see summer slipping away, I delight in how un-busy everything starts to feel when September arrives. September 1st feels like a fresh start, almost more than the New Year. And Labour Day feels like crossing a lovely boundary marker as a line is crossed from the season of busy to the season of rest.

In my world, descending into autumn brings the promise of slowing down, of cozy days by the fire, of rainy walks in the forest. Autumn brings quiet to the world. It's a season of endings as living things shed their leaves and prepare to rest for the winter. But for me, it's also a season of beginning: the beginning of quiet.

Here on the west coast, when autumn arrives, people retreat indoors and suddenly all of my favourite places are MINE again. The forest is peaceful, the streets are empty, and there is room to breathe. It's my personal homecoming, this shoulder season of creeping toward the darkness of the winter months. It's everything that this quiet life celebrates. And for the first time in many months, I can take a deep breath, and exhale.

(Photo credit: Yan Marais)