It’s Halloween. Snow on the patio deck in the morning and 50 mile an hour winds in the afternoon. What to make of it all? This frighteningly early reminder that we’re not in charge, that the weather gods don’t follow rules and don’t check the calendar. It’s kind of exciting, that’s what I think.
Possibility and change.
Possibility and change and hardheadedness; I go on my planned walk in the woods nonetheless, those breezes strong through the — one hopes — sturdy trees. Everything is some shade of brown — the dried wheat fields, the busy wrens of course, the grounded Oak leaves rising in sudden ghostly gusts.
This time of year, this day anyway, the scenery is best colored by sound; that loud wind, the moaning trees, soft silence in the deep woods. And in the fields geese, hundreds of them, call and call — encouragement and directions fill the sky above the lake where they’ll eventually land, a pause before journeying on, riding the currents elsewhere. I like the idea of riding those currents.
This wily wind blowing away the cobwebs and heralding the first strong chill before winter. All fodder for the empty page waiting at home. The world freshened and everything fine until dark. That’s when the hobgoblins show up literally as well as figuratively on this special night. Their usual figurative selves knock-knocking on my psyche, but this Samhain Eve their literal selves also a-knockin on the front door. Both will chant their usual worn chants, both will want to be fed.