I drove through the hills of my home yesterday and noticed the leaves are almost gone.
It's interesting I think, that our hearts are always beating, and we can just forget that it is a constant thing, that always must happen and is undeniably raw and beautiful.
This time of year you start noticing the heartbeat of a place. It makes you notice your own. (Because your body, that's kind of a place too). The hills are fluffy with fading grasses. Ochre, olive green, rust red. The mountains clustered with the bones of trees, stark and vigilant against crisp blue sky.
All I kept thinking as I drove, was that it felt as if I drove through the bones of the landscape, like an ancient creature stripped of its softness and color, and left bare and exposed. Everything is stretching towards the sky, finding clouds and hawks too.
I drove and drove over rolling hills and recognized the translucency of everything.
I noticed the cyclical nature of living things, and friendships and love.
Nothing ever stays the same, and no person either.
Each day offers something else.
And so, the skeleton hills, as they lose their last bits of color, a new vibrancy takes its place. What it means to live here, a toughness and a rose beauty, the growth from decay.
I know this cycle and it brings with it utter renewal. It feels busy, but its quieting down.
I'm thinking a lot of patterns, and ripples, and of my ancient family and what they learned and noticed. Did they also wander through skeleton trees on the last day of October, and think that eventually someone like me would move swiftly through the wreckage of the year; take the gems and important things; leaving the rest. Offering it to the skeleton hills.
Winter is almost here.