“Invite Wonder What if you bowed before every dandelion you met and wrote love letters to squirrels and pigeons who crossed your path? What if scrubbing the dishes became an act of single reverence for the gift of being washed clean, and what if the rhythmic percussion of chopping carrots became the drumbeat of your dance? What if you stepped into the shower each morning only to be baptized anew and sent forth to serve the grocery bagger, the bank teller, and the bus driver through simple kindness? And what if the things that make your heart dizzy with delight were no longer stuffed into the basement of your being and allowed out to play in the lush and green fields? There are two ways to live in this world: As if everything were enchanted or nothing at all.”
― Christine Valters Paintner, The Soul of a Pilgrim: Eight Practices for the Journey Within

A roof of clouds, a tree without leaves over the river foreshadows stripped November. The winterberries are hot bright red firing the wetlands in the crowds of cattails. The wetlands are muted, unspangled, not a web or glitter in sight today. But the autumn colors, some, still rich, like eggplant colored leaves by the brook, and the brook is running. And the red maple, the Japanese maple by the barn is ruby red. Busy, this day, but relaxed in the woods, and present in all my senses. I am happy to meet early with my client, Jane, and connect with her on her writing process, a lovely start to Friday. And the day whisks forward with wonderful connections. I stroll outside in the balmy air while chatting on the phone with my dear friend who wants to catch up with me on all my recent happenings. And I’m excited to plan a playback theatre event with True Story Theater, the troupe my daughter belongs to for December. A busy November and December ahead, and I’m glad for that, because the holiday preparations and activities will be greatly diminished. Small, warm, happy, but not a house full of loved ones and all the preparation. Warmth by the fire and quiet. In the late afternoon, Frank and I have a free hour together. We stroll across the lawn, the meadow, go the river’s edge, sit in the quiet, late afternoon by the river. The dogs swim. Charlie chases sticks. Brightly colored leaves drift and drift in the slow current. The air is warm and fresh, the light is golden and quiet, the smell is a wholesome rot, October mold, leaves aging into the damp earth. When we worked together, so many years ago, in our private practice, in Florida, in offices side by side, we would stroll, on breaks we found together, up the sidewalk to the corner store for chatting and refreshment. It’s a memory I love, and it’s still happening, here. except we’re in New England, on this river that runs through us.