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Our eyes to the outside...

One of the two windows in our master room 

 

I love it that it gifts us with the view of every changing season

from just steps away from our bed...

 

 And at the kiss of dusk, 

when outside light goes dim 

and the insides get fill with tickling little stars

 

A single rose

One of the last gift of the season

 

All about us is still and familiar and sweet

 

I love this little painting of the purest of white roses.

A treasure found at a estate sale, two houses down the hill from our little cottage.

Autumn leaves scattered around

How happy and thankful I am to be back to the peacefulness of our little white cottage; to be able to have made it back in one piece altogether after a whole week of traveling and experiencing some of our biggest and overpopulated cities—D.C., and N.Y.C.—with it’s irresistible charm and permanent revolution… life changes irremediably as you walk the streets of NYC… you become a poet of people and of the diversity of some very marvelous subjects—a sea of souls.  Some lost, some beyond reach I suppose.  And you feel enveloped and cheerful as though in an atmosphere of the marvelous.  NYC is an instantaneous magnetism.  And I loved it all, but always happy to return to the gentleness and oddities of our rural realm…

Our little white cottage is still standing whole too—a total relief and we found it tenderly sleeping in the arms of autumn.  We slept on a cold house last night, with only the warmth of our bodies to soothe our dreams.  And finally this morning the heating guys came and fixed our heater.  The little cottage feels warm again, and wonderfully cozy in an autumnal morning like this… and I find myself adoring the simple, the unimportant, the small... going from room to room admiring each little thing, changing a pillow here, turning on all the little lights here and there. The fairy lights like tiny whispers in the morning. 

Outside, the fallen leaves have taken possession, and now that the thicket is starting to thin out, birds of every kind are seen everywhere in their natural home.  The cardinals and the black birds and blue jays—bright blue above the oranges and crimsoned colors of autumn.  Birds with their fondness for acorns and ripe fruits chasing each other; chasing the wind.  I just can’t seem to have enough of them.

The colorful zinnias that had bestowed so much joy throughout the summer are finally done and the knockout roses almost eaten in their entirety by bugs.  I need to prune them before winter comes around, but I don’t feel like doing much outside. 

I finally finished reading “The lovely bones”.  It frustrates me that I get so profoundly intertwined into what I read.  It is a scary feeling sometimes.  And I am Susie Salmon this very moment wearing my innocence like a comfortable old coat.  “Murderers are not monsters, they're men. And that's the most frightening thing about them.” Alice Sebold.