Good morning...full of energy, I'm sitting out on the porch surrounded by the soft but persistent rain, a cool fall-weather day, maple and poplar leaves blowing down...the best respite of all for the muggy antecedents we've endured the last week or so.

Rain like this draws down into the ground, bringing out the colors of the mums and grasses, picking up the ears of the sage and marjoram...all that's left of the herb garden now.  And it draws me up, too, into a whole string of things that could be endeavored today...this post, for one, more of the one-of-a-kind cards I'm storing up for our November 4-5th show at Cathy Burnham's, tickets for the Mendelssohn concert next week.  Then there's the orecchiette and broccoli rabe I promised my aunt for lunch today.  And a jazz group I'm thinking might make a relaxing evening.

Naturally, I have no idea how much of this will get done...lunch is about the only certainty, though this morning, here with the rain, I feel hopeful for the rest.

I've wanted to write for weeks now, no dearth of subjects racing through my head, though interestingly without words to begin.  Mostly, if I sit down to type, something comes, and then I'm off, until the end, when I plug in photos and send it off to you all.  But this time the things I've wanted to record have eluded capture on the page.  My friend Leonard's passing two weeks ago, my friend Denise's marvelous journey in the Cotswalds going on, my aunt and uncle's (and my) twists and turns as we become a home together, their courage and the many lessons I learn from them.  Someday soon you may read through these life lenses, but right now, there is this refreshing rain (apparently falling in the Cotswalds, too..."a day for staying in, for wine and books", says Denise, maybe or maybe not in that order) and I remember winter days out in our farm long ago, beside a fire, grading papers or reading poetry for the magazine, glad for the chance to be interior.

Now, I think about what's possible, rather than what's gone on.

The rain itself enlightens me, especially in this fall season, so dry here so far.  You may be surprised to learn that all the hurricanes passing east and west of us in the last month have slipped by us, leaving little trace of even nourishing showers, cloudy as it's been.  Yesterday, the sun came out strong and bright by noon, and we took advantage of it to walk in the community park, and quite literally smelling the roses still blooming and fragrant in the garden there, the colors of summer fading from some petals, the colors of fall growing richer.  Even my aunt, whose sight is nearly gone, could recognize some of the huge red and white blooms, and perceive (no, I'm not being arty here; that's the closest word there is for they way she sees/doesn't see at the same time) the masses of miniature yellows and oranges, one of them called Cupcake.  Afterwards we took a ride around what used to be called Grandma's Lake, the tall old trees like archived cliffs on either side of the road.

But today, even after such a pleasant afternoon out, this morning's weather seems more to the point.  I can see my neighbor at work in his shop across the street, building grandchildren things; another neighbor drops by on her monthly collection for PORCH, our local volunteer food drive, reminding me to go through closets looking for extra coats to give against the cooler weather; a third neighbor, raincoat and umbrella for shelter, scurries up the street to work and students on bikes, some coated, some not, go the same way.  My son, in the air to Texas for work, will stay on my mind til he gets home, as always.

And me...I'd like to run right out into this rain and dance in it, for the exhilarating...and grateful...sense of  place and possibility it's given me.

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See you in November!