Fall Arrives

FallSuddenly, it’s Autumn.

Yesterday some of the folk on our lane had a yard sale. The sun put on its best bib-and-tucker and a glorious time was had by all. Yesterday it was ‘officially’ still Summer. This morning widderlake had disappeared into the mists, (of Avalon perhaps?) and the first geese honked overhead on their way to greener pastures to the south.

I looked out my writing window this afternoon and all the trees were shivering in the strong wind that’s blowing all sorts of storm clouds and rain up from the south. It reminded me of this song. Winter is coming.

Annie is like an excellent wine, simply superb.


“Whatever you do, you do out of a passion”Annie Lennox, sinter-songwriter, political activist, philanthropist

Discontented Autumn

This is the Autumn of my discontent when I’m feeling out of sorts. The-bumping-into-things, forgot-where-I-left-my-glasses-again-and-getting-really-annoyed-about-it, wanting-to-jump-out-of-my-skin twitchiness that is draining, depressing, and downright dangerous, kind of out of sorts.

This usually happens twice a year at the changeover of the seasons. When there’s not a chance of Spring returning and when Autumn is but a fond memory of warm days and crisp nights. I’m not at my best during these transition times. Partly because my knee stiffens up at the slightest provocation and refuses to work as both it, and I, know it can. Partly because I feel as though I’ve run out of time to finish the things that I wanted to get done before the season ended. And partly because it’s not time to begin the things that need to be accomplished during the coming season.

First I rant, and Mrs Widdershins listens and says all the right things in the right places. Then I have a good cry, while Mrs Widdershins says all the right things in all the right places, as well as offering hugs and hankies. Then I’m exhausted and have a headache. I don’t understand how some people can have the kind of cry that almost wrenches your bones out of their sockets, and then spring up all full of vim and vigour!

At last, I wander around in a post-emotional-release daze, not unlike an orgasmic afterglow, but without the huge cheesy grin, or the feeling of well-being, or that you don’t have any bones. Actually it’s nothing like a post-orgasmic afterglow 😦

Now, I’m ready to decide what I’m going to do to celebrate this shift of seasons.

The weather forecast for tomorrow is for wind and rain.


I have a few errands to run and then I’m going to jump on a bus down to Kitsilano Beach, buy myself a very large chai latte and just sit there (out of the rain) and watch the sea as its whipped up by the winds coming in across Georgia Strait. 

Then I’ll come home and write.


“Winter is an etching, spring a watercolour, summer an oil painting, and autumn a mosaic of them all” – Stanley Horowitz

The Seasons: Autumn

We live on the third floor of an old apartment building on a quiet street lined with decades old chestnut trees. There are two slightly younger birch trees in our front yard that display their most gorgeous plumage right outside out windows. From late Spring to early Autumn we are hidden from the world within a canopy of green.

This time of the year the canopy is turning into the colours poets swoon over, the kind of colours that can be seen from the International Space Station about 387 kilometers above us. (an average between its perigee 376 km, and apogee 398 km, AMSL-Above Mean Sea Level)

It’s raining here in Vancouver today. About a meter from my window is a tiny olive green bird hanging upside down on a branch so thin it’s bent vertically with her weight. She’s no bigger than a half-grown mouse and yet she has this wisdom about her that encompasses the whole tree, all the trees on our block, and perhaps the one next to it as well.

There’s something that happens to the undersides of the tree’s leaves when it rains. It’s too small an event for the naked eye to see, but whatever it is, this little bird and her extended family are of the opinion that it’s a tasty treat.

There they are, dancing among the leaves, small enough to dodge the splats of water from the rain soaked sky that trickle down through the canopy. They flit from tree to tree making their way along the street until I can’t see them anymore, no matter how far out the window I lean to catch that last glimpse of their industry.

Autumn rain is a fickle thing here. The sun will shine out from the west and highlight the undersides of the clouds in liquid fire. There might even be a rainbow, and I might see a part of it beyond the city’s rooftops, if I’m lucky enough.

And . . . enjoy.


“Delicious autumn! My very soul is wedded to it, and if I were a bird I would fly about the earth seeking the successive autumns”George Eliot