Our garden is covered in a thick layer of leaves. I collect them from our neighbors who rake them up, bag them and set them at the curb. I come along and hoist the damp heavy bag to my shoulder and walk home feeling once again very much out of step with the general population.
Winter is coming and I am putting the garden to bed the the season with a thick blanket of beautiful leaves in every possible shade of browns reds and orange. There are a few plants that are still robust. The kale, the swiss chard, the parsley and the carrots seem unfazed by the freezing nights and the dusting of frost that comes on to their leaves most mornings.
Winter is a time for going inside. It is a time for a different kind of growth. The kind of growth that is invisible to others and sometimes to us as well. Time alone, reading books, scrolling through pinterest, hot chocolate, writing songs, jig saw puzzles, ice skating, building fires, extra blankets, extra night time. Winter is something like sleep and something like death that ultimately leads to another waking up and new life. I find it a profound and dark mystery.