There's something about standing on the edge of a new season that rouses my creativity. The dark mustard of Goldenrod, the corn browning and bending humbly to the ground from which it came - it inspires my heart and enlivens my senses.
I creep into this season with my heart still full from the beautiful bounty of summer - the ripe Georgia peaches, the sun's warmth on heirloom tomatoes, their juice dripping from my fingertips all the way down to my elbow. The long and hungry nights of wanting to be awake just a little longer. My full-belly competes with my overflowing hands.
This transition when the heat begins to taper, and the toil lessens, we are given permission to rest. By the very grace of the darkness, the minutes seem to slow and give pause long enough to bow in thankfulness; to usher in contemplation, to think more clearly, speak more slowly, and for words to build homes inside of my bones, waiting for a life of their own.
I love this in-between time. It nurtures me in all of the ways I need before a dark and barren winter.