Last night, somewhere between that first slice of turkey and the last slice of pumpkin pie, the first real cold weather of the season snuck in. And at some point, under the icy glare of a crisp, cold, waning moon, the tropical milkweed and the fully-flowered lantana and the blooming roses and the sky-reaching castor plant and the still-blooming buddleia and the enormous elephant ears and the leafy coral bells and the lacy hydrangeas still packed with flowers waned as well - sighing their last breath. This morning, wincing at the inevitable, I rose to say goodbye and found nothing waving back but the skeletons of summer and the freshly-minted memories of warmer days. And it's the memory of those glorious summer days that lead me to this post now.
Just a few months ago, as the dog-days of August were starting to fetch something vastly more interesting than a hot air furnace, I made a quick short trip to Ohio to see friends that I actually first met a few years ago -- right here at the Faraway, Nearby.
And so to Indigo Hill I ventured in late August, and what was to be a quiet, uneventful, long weekend --turned into an extraordinary journey. A journey that, looking back now from the icy tendrils of winter's reach, was one of celebration -- a celebration of the casual grace of beautiful friendships, the joy of a loving family, the euphoria that comes from being engaged in the natural world, the bounty that comes from honoring the creative muse at every turn, and the riches of the last days of summer.
As the season turns toward rest, reflection and renewal - I leave you with the warmth that is August on Indigo Hill.
