I have two children still at home, 25 and 16. We enjoy each other's company a lot and they are such a big help with cooking and cleaning. Yesterday my 25 year old asked me, "What are you going to do when we're gone and you don't have us at home anymore?"
I answered, "Oh, I'll just start a new season and it will all be fine. Every season has its own work to do and its own joys and beauty."
Deep autumn is not as lush with growing and colors as spring and summer, but, when I stand outside at dawn in the gardens, surrounded by bare branches and stems, crunchy petals in frosty air, I can't say I'm disappointed. I can't say it's not beautiful.
It's a comfort; I know these plants; I know what they were and what they will become again. It's just their season to rest. Their bare limbs are graceful sculptures in the garden. Beneath the ground, or deep in the trees, there is work going on, in silence.
Every season has its own work to do, and its own joys and beauty.
