Gazing through the rain muddled pane, I can vaguely discern the shape of refuge, pause, and steadfast resolution. The day had ended as it had begun. Slipping my farm boots on over my thick woolen socks, I made my way down to the barn, carefully sidestepping the many pools of water and mud. I pulled my hood in closer to my head; the wind caused the rain to fall at such an angle that it appeared to defy gravity for one brief moment. I think the clouds are mocking me. It has rained continuously for four weeks and looks as though it is not finished. Meteorologists are calling it, “The Big Dark.” I don’t think I like the sound of that name. Sighing, I opened the heavy barn door and reached for the bucket of grain. I wondered if the water had flooded the lower pasture today. Feeling a push on my leg, I looked down to see my favorite sheep, Poppy. Every morning she greets me and follows me around as I do my morning chores. If I sit down, she attempts to sit in my lap. She waits for me at the edge of the pasture where she knows I come from. I buried my cold fingers into her soft fleece and scratched behind her velvet ears. The warmth of her fleece melted all the cold from me.

The day is now done and I absently look down at my hands and watch the roving as it drafts out and pulls forward. There is a rhythm to the movement that is both calming and meditative. Methodically the spinning wheel whirls as the spokes turn, controlled by my feet; a gentle rise and fall. Time slows down as it is measured by the wheel’s rotation around and around again. I let the fiber slip through my fingers as I coordinate my movements with the cycling cadence felt. As twist is added to the thin strand of fiber, it builds in strength and energy. The energy travels up the fiber to my fingers where I hold it still. It is a dance we dance, this traveling energy and I.

At times, in the uncharted attempt at living, I can feel like this yarn I ply. Tighter and tighter I spin until my center no longer grounds me to the foundation I once stood upon. Gratefully, I let go and allow the rhythm of the wheel to conversely unwind the unseen energy. Consciously I push away all that does not matter and decide to be more mindful of the things that matter most. My gaze drifts back to the window and in its reflection I see the fiber I am spinning is Poppy’s from a season ago. All things are connected and in this there is solace. In spite of the unrelenting storm outside, it will pass, and Poppy will be at the gate, in the morning, always there, never wavering.

There is a sound to fall. Quiet, yet unmistaken. Surrounded by forest, I can hear the soft drop of countless leaves, each braving their descent. It is final. I look up and I can see the leaves dancing on their way down. Some attempt a spiral, while others, mimic a ship on a storm tossed sea. Each chooses their timing well, a symphony of falling gold. The ground can feel heavy from the weight of the fall. Such weight reminds me of the reason why I am outside today. Hastening my pace, I balance the wheelbarrow filled high with fresh straw. Quickly it bounces over rocks and twigs as I make my way into the vegetable garden. Carefully I empty the wheelbarrow, taking care not to bury any renegade chickens looking for last season’s offerings. The wind picks up and the leaves forcibly descend, I do not think they appreciate the wind’s contribution to their whirl. I must hurry. I have been told that a storm is on the way and so I continue my work. My wheelbarrow is squeaky as it rolls along. Tired from a long season, it begrudgingly carries the last of the mulch and straw. Building layer upon layer, each bed is built. These layers protect from the pounding drops of rain that are intent on compounding the soil structure below. The soil can be surprisingly delicate if it is to support growth in the following spring and summer. I think the soil feels grateful that nature does not intend a performance in every season. Far beneath the heavy surface, it will rest, restore its strength, and wait for a time when the days will be long and the sun again shine. I wonder if the world can see such assurances of growth and confidence even in a season of quiet and rest. Dormancy serves great purpose as it understands its time and place. I push my wheelbarrow out of the garden and close the door on the end of a season so full.