The Pond in Early October 2009
It is so quiet here today that I can hear the beat of my own heart.
There are no birds, not even at the feeder. The last hummingbird has gone. No one is mowing, no planes fly overhead. The pool pump has been silenced, shrouded in plastic for the winter. No breeze rustles in the leaves or tugs at the canvas of the gazebo. The leaves have begun to turn, and some are already showering down.
Thoughts take a melancholy turn in autumn. Bittersweet, with joy in the glorious colors and cool days, soft sweaters, hot tea ... and sadness in the certainty that all things must end.
We have lived here two years now, and two things are clear: We never want to leave. And one day we will.
Maintaining a house in the country involves a great deal of physical strength and handyman skills, things my dear husband possesses in abundance - for now. It also involves a lot of unforeseen expenses, which we can manage - for now. But time is a thief, and the day will come when we cannot stay.
This is the way of all things, a time to sow and a time to reap, to live and to die. There is nothing to be done but to cultivate the grace to accept it. I have had a charmed and sheltered life, and in the autumn of my days I have been granted the great gift of living in a place where there is silence sometimes and a forest of my own blazing gold and red; a place filled with wild creatures and moonlight, ringing with the laughter of family, lit from within by the love of a faithful and loving mate.
It is quiet here today. So quiet I can hear my own heart. It is storing up memories against the winter to come. And it is singing.
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