I spent Saturday night at Speargrass and gave myself a retreat. It was the sort of Sunday where a friend sprinkled flax on my yogurt and dates and served me wine in the late afternoon.
I went on a long river walk alone. The last of the autumn colour was holding on to branches, and golden leaves fell like rain, spinning with gusts of wind. Rosehips hung like jewels on the grey bushes. I nibbled on one, just to feel the burst of flavour in my mouth and to think about renewal and self love. The cool air made my nose and cheeks rosey and I felt somehow different when I returned to the house.
This morning, as I gazed out the window to my van parked on the street, I couldn’t help but notice the frost covering everything. The seasons change.