I grew up in a woody suburb. My backyard was an old growth cemetery. Every year a storm with winds like a tornado, or a heavy, wet snow would take down another tall oak or evergreen. The destruction made the yard feel alive. It yielded to change in the most natural way and each season I found new emotions in its depth.

The screen flicked to night mode and broke my trance long enough to refocus. From a slouched position at the end of the table, I extended my right arm to the side of the laptop and my tiny white companion and I continued to roam the cold wooden surface clicking aimlessly through old Hic-et-nunc pieces.

River wide

River high

Let's ask them why

The river ran dry

Don’t turn an eye Blind

There is hope in the first days of fall. The hope that this year, just maybe, you will see the change play out slowly, gently before your eyes. That this year, this fall, the momentum of the world will not distract and dilute your meditation.