The earth draws tightly its cloak. The soil begins to harden imperceptibly. Days shorten and nights close in around the garden. Even the most hardy blooms bow for their last curtain call of the the year. Winter is coming; nighttime is calling us to nestle-in. It is time to rest, to let the pace die for a while.
Oh how we wish it were true. More organic cultures follow the seasons like a clock, welcoming the winter's night. They rest and restore relationships--not even considering that these things are preparation for the spring to come. They live the season, and this should be a time for breathing, laughter and snoring.
Not the electric light crowd. Rest is for the weak, not the weary! So we rush and squeeze our tired psyche's for another drop of productivity. Like a child refusing a nap, we neglect the sweet dreams of relationships, hearth and home. These are for weaker folk of days gone by. We must spin on toward our own demise and burn the wick until it meets its frazzled end.
What season will this be for you?