Francisco's Journal an author discusses the art of writing

Late September in New England. A few dogwood leaves are stained with purple while not far away a white rose still blooms. The pear tree streaks yellow, the Japanese Elm is tainted with the beginnings of orange. The grass is still green and growing, but its pace is tired. I am determined to watch this transition, this changing over. I have singled out a leaf in the great oak tree in the front yard hoping to see the first tint of color appear. But it is not only sight that is affected during this time. There is a quieting taking place as if silence itself were looking for its proper rest place. The care-full watching and listening comes with a price. Along with the awe of seeing beauty born I feel an apprehension, a mixture of tender sadness and mild fear. Something hard is up ahead but it is yet too distant to fully imagine. A sense that now’s the time to garner strength, ready the soul’s firewood. Astonishingly, I know people who claim not to feel this subtle dread. Here where I live there are many who wouldn’t trade the change of seasons for a full time island paradise. I suspect that what they’d miss is not just the landscape transformation but the hues of feeling that accompany each phase. So I tell myself to be like my hardy neighbors. Can I embrace the inner resonance of each color? Let my heart be a flute played by the day’s breath.