Wherever Autumn finds you, pull it round like a covering and sit under it with a mustering of gladness.
There is some kind of comfort in the dying beauty of these days. I like to think it is because Autumn is a season of remembering, of reminiscence, of that lingering sense in a bite in the air or the growing greyness lit here and there by flames of color, that Goodness once knew your name, and that Goodness will know you again.
In these darkening days is the respectful surrender of nature to the pattern of things, to the laying down of life so that a resurrection can happen. And as naturely creatures, the crown of all creation really, we walk solemnly alongside all this withering, but in a kind of peace if we can know it. And there is such beauty in a good death. It is a power to behold it.
This humble way of autumn is like a gentle companion to my wayward soul. It comforts me as I try to walk a similar path, carried along by grace and grit, and a sense that beauty really can rise up from what feels like a losing battle. Oh, the Good God of all glorious seasons and earthy bodies is in the business of victories that look like losses, and rising up from the darkest of places.