The season of contrasts begins.
I wake to the sound of wind, roaring around the house like an enraged intruder. The house is cold, easily remedied with a quick turn of the thermostat dial. Warmth seeps along the floor, creeps into the rooms and into my bones.
Outside, snow/frozen rain scratches frantically at my windows and creates a slushy carpet on the deck, while petunias continue to bloom cheerfully and the lobelia nods and waves, oblivious to their own death knell. I rescue the bright red geranium, still full of buds, and hope the hardy thing withstands the sudden indoor warmth to become a happy houseplant.
This last last day of October says fall, but gray November pushes and shoves its way onto
the horizon, helped by the wind that relentlessly plucks at trees, robbing them of the last of their carefully hoarded leaves. Tiny birds that delayed migration in favor of my plentiful seed offerings, now huddle for the last few bites and then fly off. The feeders, still full, sway in their lonely abandonment.
Inside, the dough for raisin-cinnamon bread mixes in the machine, George practices guitar scales and techniques in the back room, Lady curls asleep on a warm fleece bed while the roar of the furnace mutes all sound. The fireplace, cold and dark, awaits the fire promised it at first-light.
It’s the season of contrasts and transitions, of goodbyes and hellos, of memories possibilities and promises. Today, no matter its color, is a good day to be alive.