Feast on the wind

A single yellow leaf is carried by the wind above my head. It dances and curls on the air, flutters, pauses, and falls below the propelling current, spinning slowly down in a spiral towards earth. The wind gusts and claps, roars then whispers. A thousand leaves are the chorus of the sound, flung from their branches in the woods and into the open meadow. The sky rains yellow and orange. Leaves land in my hair, on my lap. In my hand.

Catherine calls me Ann Allson. Caroline says, AnnOwlsin. The little one (Caroline, or Mrs. Booge) wiggles out of my lap and part runs, part toddles down the hill drunk on her joy. Catherine hears a train in the distance, lifts her head, squeals and claps her hands. Choo-choo.



I walk the hill, breathe the air. My path is dappled with soft October sunlight. A certain quietness falls over the land. I see the dormant plants, consider the seasons, consider the changes in my life. I hold my arms out, palms up, turn around in a circle and spin in the surrounding color.

At the dinner table tonight, the little one stretched her hand across the table to hold my own for grace. Her sister, though, wanted to tell a story. Caroline rolled her eyes and squeezed my finger. When Catherine finished grace and said, Amen, Caroline shook her head up and down in the affirmative and enthusiastically responded, YEAH.

A voice my own tells me to pay attention. These moments in my life lately, they are the moments of gentle hands and golden light, moments of truth. The moments where all that I love and all that loves me are here again, alive again, hopeful again. Promising again.