I sit here, my feet up, a cup of wine on the table beside me. I take out my earrings and let my body sink into the stuffed chair, my laptop on my lap. The windows are dark but reflect the light and color from inside the house. The dogs are sleeping, each curled up in their own bed. The woodstoves have kept a steady warmth all day.
Last week I was afraid winter might not come, but this evening, I cut the last of the mums and put them in old peanut butter jars around the house. They wouldn’t survive the 20-degree temperatures predicted for the night.
It’s only 5:30, but it feels like it’s much later.
By four o’clock I was done working in my studio. I started early today, getting my quilt all but finished. But those last few pieces wouldn’t come. If it were warmer out, if the light was the kind that happens at 4 pm in the summer, instead of this time of year, I’d still be out there, finishing up.
I don’t worry about quitting work so early this time of year anymore. I know I’m adjusting to the change of seasons, the change in the light and darkness. For years I worried that I was getting lazy, that I wouldn’t get my work done. But after having my own business for 14 years, I know this is a natural part of my creative process.
Knowing this also helps me to embrace this dark and cold time of year in a way I hadn’t before. Now I see it as a time of slowing down. Of sinking in.
And if I forget, all I have to do is look around me at the sleeping dogs. They know what to do and when it’s time to rest.
The creatures in the wild know what to do this time of the year and with the coming of shorter days.
I try to take my cues from them with the natural slowing of activity, and tend to my cave in readiness for the winter. I used to resist the changes instead of embracing the time of hibernation and preparation.
If only we silly humans didn’t have clocks that we set back or forward we’d be more in step with the natural changes.
Oh you are so right LoisJean. Those clocks have taken over. They measure every moment ticking them off making us forget the continuity of existence.
Sometimes it is a slow process to realize what the body needs in these times of transition.
I was this way for years..
When I listened, like you ,
I could accept surrender and sink in to it
I think you’ve written a poem DawnMarie. Why are we so resistant to listening?
I cut down my sprawling mum plant yesterday in advance of last night’s hard freeze. Am pulling off the yellow centers, maybe to use as seeds but to breathe in that mum smell over the winter. They are pretty, having withered lavender petals.
I am so surprised at how fragrant the mums are Sharon. I keep sticking my nose in them. I don’t think I ever even tried to smell them until just a few days ago. It’s a good idea to dry some.