The Hermitage

I’m hiding today, looking from my glass cube at Crayola colors on mountains to the northwest. Fall is my favorite, and I imagine God joyfully scribbling vibrant swaths of yellow (aspen), orangey persimmon (aspen and serviceberry), and red (more aspen) in amoeba-shaped swirls on our mountain sides.

If my view is this good, His must be spectacular!

Yesterday morning, I looked south and found—”snizzle!” The season’s first drizzly scree dusted the range with a snowy cap in craggy crevices, and I reminded myself how rapidly this will change to solid white peaks resembling stiffly whipped cream.

As I fished the Colorado river last week, cottonwoods were tall stalks of corn yellow, although bank foliage clung to summer green. The wild geranium leaves were streaked with red veins, as were the berry brambles. Geese flocked and squabbled, preparing for the flight south. Beaver feed stations piled everywhere, dams recently reinforced. The long, frosty spell is pushing in. (And so are the bears, gorging for hibernation.)

I’ll leave this vibrant valley to attend a weekend conference, a pivotal step in my awesome eighteen-month endeavor. God has opened countless doors (and a few windows). People have been so kind—and interested! I’m turning a professional corner much like the seasonal change, generally knowing what lies ahead, well-prepared, with contingencies in place. What an adventure!

When I return, piles of leaves will litter the ground. The garden will have to be clipped. Nights will be below freezing for the long haul. The two doe and three fawn in the back this morning will be a little fatter, thanks to our wildflowers and grasses. I’ll coerce Mr. Wonderful into putting the big, crazy metal pumpkins in the front yard, and in return, I’ll fetch the slow cooker for stews.

I see His hand in all of these wonderful, invigorating changes, and hope you do, too.

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