Saying Farewell to Autumn.

Autumnal mornings in my mom's garden.

I've always loved autumn the most of them all. I don't know if it's because of its colors, revealing new shade every day, or is it because of the warmth that hugs me while passing under brown canopies? Is it because of the creaking paths and listening to the footsteps of the doe in those auburn distances? Is it the sound of early, frosty mornings decorated with misty waves or the loud singing of wild geese as they bravely spread their wings and leave for some other valleys? Is it because of the smell of old sweaters in which I walk on the dewy ground or because of the dance of a candle flame as it flickers on my kitchen table? Is it because of the crimson red apples in my mom's basket or because of the clatter of horse hooves in autumn orchard? Or because of rest, slow pace, silence and peace she invites me to? I've always wanted to live in the moment, to embrace and enjoy every minute of this beautiful season. To notice all those wonders of autumnal walks, all those wonders tucked away in brown and yellow and dark red foliage. A moment I'll always remember, from one of my autumn walks. I was standing wrapped in my grey sweater, and she was standing tall in her brown valley, brown almost like her. She lifted her head and her auburn ears, looked at me and decided to meet me with a calm, long gaze behind those blades of dry grass. A doe, beautiful and free. A moment when autumn revealed beauty, true beauty that happens when two beings are meeting while seeking and finding peace, two beings wrapped in moments of freedom in that autumn valley bathed in rain. And between those rain soaked grass blades, she quietly slipped away, and shortly after I slipped away too.

These last autumn days were spent in the countryside with my family. Among those valleys and hills that were colored in shades of brown, deep yellow, dark green and auburn. Now they lie covered with early morning frost, footsteps of wild creatures stamped into the muddy paths, bare bushes with evergreen leaves and red berries still sticking out. Now it is easy to see through the forest, through those bare branches and grass that kisses the ground. Only branches of pine grove spread over the path and the hoot of an owl is heard as soon as the early darkness descends. Curtained windows, silence, a candle flickering around. We were a lot inside those days. Mornings dawned crisp and white. We brewed some tea, baked some cinnamon buns, wrapped ourselves in sweaters and wool hats and knit socks for our morning walks. Every morning I would look outside and see that clear, white sky ready to release some flakes of snow. I would plump my pillow, hug my little one and try to find some warmth still swirling around between our bed folds. And I would think about all the little things I want to make and do on that day. From cutting my mom's rosemary branches and making a cake to going on a evergreen branches gathering trip for making this year’s holiday wreath. Then a breath or two, and I would slip in my thick socks and head to the kitchen to brew some ginger tea.

On one of those late autumn days at the countryside I went into the woods with my dad and my little one. I wrapped myself in thick winter jacket, my beige wool hat, some knit socks and green muddy boots I finally bought for myself this year. We went alongside pine grove. I brought baskets and gardening shears. We watched valleys covered in frost, first snowflakes were dropping from evergreen branches and red berries were sticking alongside them. It seemed to me that even last late autumn the pine trees were shorter than me. Now my gaze reaches high towards the white sky, towards the top of those pine trees. Now, it feels possible to get lost among them, among their wide and dense evergreen branches. Looking into the depths of that little pine forest seems like a scene from a snowy Christmas movie. A warm, family movie. It seemed like a day when the family would choose their pine tree and drag it with their collective strength towards the warm corner of their home. On that day, we didn't haul pine, but pine branches and whips to make this year's Christmas wreath. Dad was looking for and cutting the flexible whips of some tall bush with big gardening shears, and I was choosing and cutting pine branches with the most beautiful evergreen needles. I also collected several stems of dry wildflowers in my woven basket. Of course, no Christmas and no wreath in my little home is complete without at least one wildflower. When I snipped the stems gently, hundreds of seeds, each with their own autumnal story, lifted with soft and cold breeze and landed on some frosty, winding paths. They reminded me of wild geese leaving, of my childhood, of me on that tiny porch standing tall like that doe in the valley, saying farewell to those loud dots in the sky. And in that moment I realized how many times I already said goodbye, to many autumn seasons before this one, to many flocks of wild geese, to many loving souls and many parts of me. Within every autumn and with every new ending, comes a beginning, seeds are landing somewhere new and somewhere already well known, but they'll be sprouting once again, a bit changed, a bit old, after this winter rest. And after those few moments of my thoughts and recollections, we got into my dad's tractor and returned to our warm home. Soon after, I made my own wreath, inserted a few evergreen sprigs, laid a few stems of that wildflowers among the pine needles, a few small dried flowers from my mother's garden, added vintage bells and linen ribbon. Days later, the wreath found its place in my small city home, on the wall of my white kitchen.

Love this simple Christmas wreath.

Early autumn mornings are the most beautiful in the countryside. We were often greeted with mist and frost and wind. But we loved it all. We mostly loved to watch it from the warmth of our home. After some time, the mist clears, the sun's rays begin to gather the mist into crisp swirls of reddish yellow and bluish shades to evaporate in the air. After a day of walking through the fields, making wreaths, making cookies, watching over my little one, making some tiny adventures and explorations for him, it was time to enter the home, to slowly take of sweater and hat and boots. It was time to put on thick socks, listen to the sound of kettle whistling and to drink a mug of warm ginger tea. And while I listened to the whistling of boiled water and poured tea into my favorite mug, the distances were already shrouded in darkness, and we could see our reflections on the windows. A starless sky, dark gray with hovering dark clouds semeed like heavy blanket over the hills. I could only decipher the lines of mist floating in the valley below our house and watch it pass lightly through the meadows.

Heading to the meadow and forest paths was our everyday task. A task we love to fulfill. At the end of November and beginning of December, autumn leaves its last traces. Traces in the corner of the forest, in the widths of a large valley of dried flowers and tall beige grass, on slopes that turn gray with the arrival of winter. Autumn leaves its creaking steps to silence. Silence that even animals respect. Here and there you can hear the small footsteps of a fast animal in the forest, here and there a dry twig falls. Mostly everything is shrouded in silence. I live in the city, but here in the countryside, walking through meadows and forest paths day after day seems like a vacation, something that puts my worries into a different perspective. The steps of my little one and my sister are always present on walks. Several walks were filled with footsteps of my husband and my father. Sometimes there's even a basket in our hands for picking some beautiful flowers and evergreen twigs. My sister is always dressed in her black winter jacket and wrapped in her dark sweaters. A knitted band around her head that warmed her ears, and on her feet a green rubber boots. She walked as always, a few steps ahead of us, keeping an eye on our dogs. The silence around us was absolute, the rest of the world seemed to be still sleeping. Only dry flower petals from distant fields floated almost invisible and completely silent. Along the field road you can see withered grass,  here and there intricately intertwined with cobwebs. The trees that line the edges of the fields gathered enough energy to wave goodbye to autumn leaves and colors, to leave their cloaks of gold, ocher, dark red and cinnamon. In those moments when we would see all those bare branches and hear the birds singing more and more softly, we knew that our hills would soon be lined with white crinoline and soft snowflakes. And we thought to ourselves: "Autumn feels so final."

Morning snow in our orchard. Magical. But, autumn feels so final now.

And to end this letter or even and ode to my autumn, I'll tell you about one of my early mornings. About tiny wonder and a big reminder. Those late autumn days in the countryside were filled with my gratitude too. I felt grateful for my family, for moments with them, for my beautiful childhood, and for the bond we carved through all these years. Every morning I spent some time in my mom's tiny garden in front of the house. I would put on my mom's rubber slippers, take my winter jacket, take a warm cup of tea in my hands and go out into the crisp air. On the second morning we've spent with my family, I found myself eye to eye, soul to soul with a snowy, white, calm and quiet morning. The whiteness of the fields was embraced by a thick, low fog. Otherwise, you can see the hills from the yard and it seems as if you can jump to the top of those hills with one big leap. Now, there was only fog and whiteness everywhere. I haven't met such winter whiteness for a long time. It seemed like a dream. As if I will soon float away into that unknown white space and breathe in all the silence. I wanted to photograph everything I see, but there was no mobile phone in my pocket that morning, just as if the snow and silence wanted to be alone with me, with me fully present within them. And while I was observing the distance, admiring the untouched white snow, I saw a tiny feather on my mother's rosemary bush. I'm not sure which bird it belonged to, but it was white with some gray streaks. I once read or heard, that to find a feather means to receive a message from someone you have lost. A reminder of them. And in that moment, in that whiteness, in that snow and that fog, at that very moment I remembered the soul that loved us all so much. And we loved him. Deeply. Still do. A soul who has not been around for several years, but his departure awakened the desire for presence and simplicity in me. A soul that I wish could stand in this snow beside me, tell me a tale of the white deer one more time, like when I was little and hug me as tightly as he always did. But, I knew he was still hugging me, with that whiteness, that silence, that peace. I left the feather on the rosemary branches, and watched as the whiteness of the snow gently and silently covered it. I stood still, grateful. Grateful because I had the opportunity to spend many autumn seasons in that love of his and to love in return. And in this time of autumn departure and the approach of holidays, gratitude seems to be the most important and beautiful gift that we can give to ourselves, to those around us and to those who are no longer here. To all the seasons we had, to all endings and all beginnings.

So, farewell autumn, farewell flocks of wild geese, farewell auburn meadows. See you again in all your shades and tales, here on the same hills and valleys, between my footsteps on these winding paths.

Little suggestions:

• Read more about navigating this gifting season.

• Where did the November go?

• Read more about autumnal days in the countryside here.

• More on gratitude and how I'm practising it.

• On how I welcomed autumn this year.

• Also I've been writing some tiny tales over on Substack, on my page Notes from Meadow, so you can head there too.