Enchanted Autumn

The beginning of fall usually saddens me, but not this year, I don't know why, for some reason even the cold rain, the wispy fog and the chilly mornings feel soft, like an embrace. The garden doesn't look sad either, it doesn't don the scraggly, despair driven appearance that usually accompanies the end of summer, it rather looks mature, self reliant, a landscape that endures.

I've planted a lot of perennials in the past few years, most of which the garden itself provided, and because they emerged from if its soil, they didn't have to adjust to it, I can almost feel them thrive. They found a balance among themselves, establishing their spreads, their hierarchy, their symbiotic relationships, and look like they've been there together forever.

A few sedum clumps that I started from tiny voluneer seedlings grew gigantic and stand above the landscape, fully ripe, turning quickly from burnt sienna to dark chocolate.

It's almost time for pumpkins and colorful foliage, warm fuzzy sweaters and hot cups of cocoa in front of the fire, and the aroma of root vegetable broth wafting through the kitchen.

There is enchantment in the air at the beginning of the cold season and I relish this unassuming time when everything seems so quiet and still, but when miraculous transformations happen under the stark surface of the soil, the kind that bring forth life's abundance in spring.