The early evenings whisper “slow down” — embrace the stillness that comes with November.

Stepping out onto the porch, I take in the crisp air and close my eyes.

The songs of summer crickets have softened to the hush of trees releasing their leaves — a gentle goodbye, a letting go.

The field across the road lays bare — only rows of dried corn stocks remain, cut to the ground. The harvest has been gathered.

Old corn cobs make their way over to our yard overnight. Scavenged, then left behind.

Even the pace of our resident red squirrel has slowed to a quiet rustle along the forest floor.

No longer the skipping creature we observed dashing from here to there around the yard.

Food has been stored. Preparations have been made.

The winter months won’t be the same for her, even though she won’t hibernate.

I let out a sigh, pulling my hat lower over my ears.

I miss the flowers — the warm pastels, vibrant bursts of red, the calming purple-blue hues, yellow sunshine petals.

A wildflower medley that sang songs of joy and hope.

Oh how they filled my heart with delight.

In the garden there was so much life. The bustle of bees, the pathways of insects moving about.

The silence of the garden now feels deafening.

As the sun begins to hide away for the night, I feel a twinge of nervousness.

It is already evening? So soon?

There’s still so much I want to do.

I am that little red squirrel.

I bustle. I scamper. I rush, climb, and jump.

Only, I don’t slow down as she has now.

A hush.

A whisper. Slow down.

Rest.

I find comfort in the yellow moon peeking over the barren cornfield.

Blowing on my cold fingers, I step inside and place the kettle on the stove.

With my favorite mug in hand, filled with steaming tea, I embrace the coziness of the chilly night.

Journaling.

Pondering, dreaming, wondering.

A quiet river of music runs through the background, waltzing with the warm twinkle lights that hug our log cabin walls.

We laugh at our two kitties chasing each other. They’ve just woken up from their afternoon naps and find enjoyment hiding from one another, only to pounce and run some more.

My husband pulls out his bass and plays music in the other room. I sit down to draw.

I glace over at my bag of yarn — two wooden needle stick out, attached to the start of something that may grow into a scarf someday. It’s a seasonal hobby for me and every winter it brings me joy.

When I take a breath and finally slow down, I find a comforting peace in the stillness of this season.

This in-between time we call stick season.

Piling wood, stoke the fire, keep it hot.

Friends gather around the campfire — blankets draped over our laps, mugs of hot apple cinnamon cider warming our hands.

In the quiet night our laughter fills the darkness.

Oh the warmth of being with those who make me smile.

Board game nights with bowls of popcorn.

Meeting a friend in a coffee shop with a scarf around my neck — I feel like I’m in a movie.

I wonder, “Is it so obvious that I never go to coffee shops?“

Roasted root vegetables — a colorful array of carrots, beets, parsnips, and onions, sprinkled with herbs.

The warm embrace wrapped in the smell of pumpkin bread baking in the oven.

Curled up in a blanket, talking on the phone with a loved one who lives far away.

Oh the moments that bring such comfort.

Gratitude.

My worn-out gratitude journal tells of the gifts found in every season.

From the warm, summer out-in-the-canoe days to the chilly, cozy immersed-in-a-book days.

This season is a time to reflect. A time to pause.

A hush.

A whisper. Slow down.

Rest.

Let your roots find nourishment.

Let your roots store energy.

New growth will peek through the dirt in your life.

Just give it time.

Rest.

The bulbs planted in autumn will grow into spring flowers.

The bare trees will burst with new green leaves.

Just you wait. Be patient.

Embrace the coziness that comes with the darkness of winter.

Find peace in the stillness.

There’s beauty to be found in this season.

Warmth, life, and joy.

Most of all, there is hope.