Yesterday, I walk into the woods and into autumn’s first blush: red dogwoods and the crackle of dry leaves underfoot.
And I find myself breathing a deep sigh that feels — strangely — like relief.
Autumn is usually a hard season for me, in spite of the goodness of hot cider and apple-picking, boots and flannel and blankets. I guess that’s because I’m a summer girl, and fall spells the end of a season in which I feel most alive, most myself. Usually, I walk into the red-tinted forest and feel the first breath of winter on the wind. The death of everything green.
But this year is different.
This year, along with the fear, I feel hope.
Can I tell you a secret — a secret that those who love me best already know? This has been a hard summer for me. I’ve made some terrible relational decisions in recent months…
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