The morning is cool and damp, but come, walk with me. We will don our woolly scarves and mitts, and be grateful for that warmth.
As we enter the leaf-strewn path, our footfalls mute. Birds tweet and observe our passage from their spy perches. Fluffy-tailed bunnies scamper for cover, but we mean no harm. We are simply walkers who came by one autumn day.
“The blue of the sky is one of the most special colors in the world, because the color is deep but see-through both at the same time.” ―
Even now, still in the midst of summer, the light is changing, preparing for transition: the days ever so slightly shorter, the rising sun a few minutes delayed. Here, the last light of a warm evening illumines a fading flower.
To pause to allow the ordinary to reveal its small beauties
is to attend,
is to meet a moment of joy.
“Let us dance in the sun, wearing wild flowers in our hair…”
―Susan Polis Schutz
This forgotten house . . .
What stories have been worn into its walls?
What memories dwell within like lonely ghosts?
What secrets will it forever keep?
This abandoned home,
Once, was it filled with love and laughter?
Or heartbreak and sorrow?
Forsaken, does this house long for its past?
Mourn its lost occupants?
Weep as it crumples?
But do not be mistaken.
This forgotten house has not failed.
It is, simply, eloquently, telling its story.
And, as you know, all stories come to an end.