November. Light leaps, fast and free, falling into corners long forgotten by summer. It flickers at the feet of the cottonwoods, showing off the lasts of the season. The sun seared bark ripples and flakes, peeking out cordially beneath a casual noon. Under the brisk and steady air, an overhead of blue rings clear and clarified. There, the clouds flit and swell, nearly whimsical in their shape shifting. Months of wildfire and smoke drift, which earlier stuffed the skies, become an ancient musing. It was once drawn and is now forgotten, passing gently from east into the west.
Time rehearses its part, bending blush and bloom towards fading. The earth browns and grows browner, a caramelized cover both woody and fragrant. Leaf by leaf the duff piles higher, while twigs and needles blanket the bottom of the garden. Occasionally, the lingering prickle of spruce resin wafts upwards, then dissipates. It is a reminder of what was ready and multiplied, and what is slowly winding down.
Latter months are for curling inwards, or so they say. They are the days spared for alignment with the dark. Minutes for gathering in the emptiness that sits and then gives way to solace. Staring upwards into the barren canopies, it is impossible to argue that the prairie winds long laid their claim. The trees were lengthened and hollowed before the autumn came fully into being. Still, I watch as the sun dances eagerly in the breaths between the branches. Restless and wild, the rays rise and tumble. Abundance, it seems, has caught me by surprise.
September is not September without the revel. October is not October before the dreaming. Wistful, folky overtones. Shades of cinnamon. Hints of burgundy. Should now be any different? Here is the invitation towards playfulness. To capture where it glows as the sunsets shorten. To offer deeper attendance in the midst of diminished intensity. A quest to light our own, internal candles, and to keep them burning regardless of the weather. This, too, is a kind of richness.
Let the game unfold, and let it keep unfolding. Lean into the wind, and run around the rain. Marvel in sage and amber, and hold each colour tightly. Press the offerings of oaks between your palms, and then again in the company of dog-eared pages. Pause the spill and overflow, and thank the grain for harvest. Sip peppermint tea. Savour that it was planted.
And when the bread has been spent on hungry birds and the hour feels endless, look for where the sunbeams scatter. You don’t have to swallow a rainbow to find them. Dawdle along corridors and nestle into the corners of windows. Note where everything bends, and grey becomes gold. Let the warmth sink a little farther into your skin and join it in its mischief. Turn up the radio. Waste your words on windchimes. Catch a lucky feather and place it in your pocket. Revel at the ripeness of the moon, and wonder how it gets itself home. This is how to open empty eyes. This is how to fill them.
So let the game begin, and let it begin again. Delight as if you are going and never coming back. Play your hands into the open arms of brightness. Seek always and earnestly, though this might take a lifetime to master. Sing and sway into the breadth of its yield. In the late and latter half of the year, may the weight of its verse be enough to keep you.