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In her blog ‘Old Monk’s Journal’ Sr. Mary Lou Kownacki talks about Autumn being a time for sadness. She included this quote by Thoreau. “There is a certain fertile sadness which I would not avoid, but rather earnestly seek. It’s a kind of contentment with the poignant and passing parts of life, rather than the surface of all sunshine.”

Fertile Sadness. What a perfect description of this season for me. Autumn is my favorite season. I do enjoy Summer and all that comes with it. But, our short summers here means most of the garden work is done then. And there are the summer festivals, vacations, and more so that sometimes you feel like it just rushes by too fast.

In early autumn, the days are still warm but not as long. It feels balanced somehow. The neighborhood boys are back in school and with colder rainy weather their sometimes too loud voices are rarely heard. The trees display their colors in a dazzling display. The last of the produce in the garden is harvested.

Now, what is left in the garden has been hit with frost and decomposing, adding fertility to the ground. There seems to be a grey mist rising from the river daily and unless the sun breaks through it, it looks and feels like a blanket you can cover yourself with.

The grey days, rainy, windy or chilly days seem to require less of me. They encourage me to be still, rest and sit with what has passed. I think of memories made, seeds planted in the garden, in relationships, in community, what has been harvested and what has been left behind to add to fertile ground.

I walk outside and feel the fallen leaves crunch under my feet, dried and brittle now. Just as I did as a child I enjoy the sound of them, aware that this dying is necessary to give life to something else. In amongst the dried leaves I find a few freshly fallen ones, still brightly colored. They are reminders of the bright days past and I bring them indoors for when I need them.

But for just a little longer I need this season of falling. It allows me to remember, to grieve in a gentle way.

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