There is stillness. And cold. Everything as it is, holding position. There is stillness and great planes of light touching everything.
Then, the smallest of sounds, thin and profound, almost undetectable, the crack of bonds breaking.
Now the wind is in the trees and everything comes loose.
October is hard to see. It hasn’t happened. It’s past happening. It’s there in the un-happening. The end of this. That’s where October lives.
October says to me: Open your hands. Let go of everything you can.
But I love all these things. This stuff that I have built and gathered. These ways that I have cultivated. It’s all so beautiful.
Yes. Let it go.
But how will I live without it?
You’ll be surprised how much you thought you needed, you find you don’t. Everything you choose to hold, takes work to support. Open your hands. Let it go.
The day is confettied with the no-longer necessary, all rattle and hiss, all fanfare and glee, swirl and celebration.
What’s the good of it? I wonder.
October shows me the pure strong heart of what remains.