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Yesterday, with no work scheduled and F.’s university officially on fall break, we were supposed to go to work at Bill’s farm, as part of our CSA share duty.  However, when the alarm sounded, I awoke to a downpour that was awe inspiring. A small river had formed on the concrete walkway at the front of the house.  F.  rang Bill, who said there was no way we would get any work done in this kind of weather and to stay home.

So I rolled over in bed and let the melody of the rain wash over me, and ended up sleeping in until almost noon.  I haven’t done that for a long time.  Maybe years.  It felt so great.  I think my body probably needed the deep, restorative slumber to recover from the punishing hours I’d put it through while on deadline.

Now it’s raining again.  The light coming in at the window has a muted glow as if the world were under water.

I had all these plans for the garden.  I was going to put in the winter flowers today.  You know, the pansies and violas, plus a magnificent ornamental kale I just couldn’t resist picking up at the local nursery.  And then I was going to finish putting the garlic cloves to bed for a long winter’s nap.  But I think the weather, itself, is indicating that it may be a day to just pause, take a deep breath, and allow myself to rest.

It may be the day to finally make Christina’s apple crostata.  It’s been calling my name ever since I read the recipe on Friday, and between one thing and another, I haven’t made the time to do it yet.  (Yes, I consider baking restful.)  And then I could eat a slice of it while curled up under a soft, warm blanket, reading by lamplight as the rain drums down.

Autumn rains have that effect on me sometimes, reminding me to withdraw inward, to pull the focus in towards the center.  Anyone else having this response to the changing seasons?

(Well, I suppose I should say, anyone in the Northern Hemisphere… you who live in the Southern Hemisphere are waking up to quite a different soul season, as I was reminded after a recent visit to the blog of my friend Robyn who lives Down Under.)

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For some reason the buds of the orange cosmos make me think of a circus tent.  I love the burgundy and chartreuse stripes, and that’s normally not a color combination I would be into.  (Well, come to think of it, one year I did do a “dollar store” Christmas tree using only those colors plus bright, glittery gold, and I got lots of compliments.)

Can you imagine that turns into this, though?

It’s rather encouraging.  No matter what state my life is in now, whether I’m satisfied with my level of development (and I’m generally not) in different areas of my life pie — spiritual, physical, adventure — there’s no telling what it’ll look like in the next few months.  Or years.  Every stage is so different.

Just three seasons ago, I was in a different city, with different housemates, just barely aware of a life-changing event on the horizon.

Looking back three years ago, I’m awed by how much I’ve grown and changed, and also a little proud of that woman for holding steady and keeping the faith.  I feel grateful, humble, blessed.

I want to keep growing and evolving like that.

How about you?  Take a peek back to three seasons ago and three years ago in your life.  Can you see areas of your person that were still tightly furled in a bud, that have now unfolded?

Of course, to complete the metaphor, I’ll need to post a photo of some cosmos seeds.  Luckily, I’ve got some for later.  I planted every single seed I bought, but these plants are prolific producers of very distinctive (read:  weird) seeds.  You’ll see.  Perhaps winter, when we’re all feeling more dormant and contemplative.  Then we can all look way back.

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