“Life starts all over again when it gets crisp in the fall.”

― F. Scott Fitzgerald


There is something about this season. The air itself tastes of melancholy.

It seems like the frost that rolls in brings every longing and loneliness and emptiness into crisp relief. Things that were masked briefly by the warm haze of summer and the promise of sunshine out your window in the morning.

My heart begins its longing again. My soul begins its humble yearning. For what? Its almost as if some ancestral distant dream of migration still lingers in the cobwebbed corners of our spirits. There comes again that strange pull to follow the winged creatures in their proclivity. Or to follow the other organic impulse– to settle ourselves into a pocket of fallen leaves, to remain quiet and still through the snow and solitude of winter.


This song feels fitting.

Goldmund – Threnody


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