We've had some great weekends lately; mini-road trips, an equinox potluck with friends, farmers market, hotsprings, soaking up the incredibly blue September sky, and feeling our manic summer rhythm slow down just a little.
Last weekend we ventured to the Bitterroot to see friends (and new babies!) then up to my mom's cabin for our last night at the lake until next spring.
We walked by this 'cabin' and I loved the quilt hanging over the railing - so very 'fall-in-the-mountains.'
I loved this picture of Amelia looking at these yellow leaves, because it expresses the way I've always felt toward the beginning of fall - a little tentative, not quite willing to let go of my (slight) mourning for summer, but still a bit impressed. Why, hello there fall...
Then back home again, and it seems everything around me is reaching, stretching, growing for that last bit of warmth;
On our way into town the other morning, Garrison Keillor read a poem by Louise Erdrich on the radio that really resonated for me. I keep coming back to one particular line:
The Glass and the Bowl
The father pours the milk from his glass
into the cup of the child,
and as the child drinks
the whiteness, opening
her throat to the good taste
eagerly, the father is filled.
He closes the refrigerator
on its light, he walks out
under the bowl of frozen darkness
and nothing seems withheld from him.
Overhead, the burst ropes of stars,
the buckets of craters,
the chaos of heaven, absence
of refuge in the design.
Yet down here, his daughter
in her quilts, under patterns
of diamonds and novas,
full of rich milk,
I love the line; "nothing seems withheld from him."
I'm living through days that feel that way.
I am keeping my eyes open, drinking in these last gold days.
Nothing seems withheld.