I just took a walk in the deepest dark of the longest Winter night, Solstice Eve, the 1st night of  Yuletide’s 12 Nights,  of  Germany’s 12 Weinachten (Holy Nights).
www.netdeva.com/lisalindberg/seasonal-celebrations/winter-solstice.htm

Walking around in the hush of the night, the snow and trees and buildings and mountains cold and bluish-white in the semi-dark, I felt like the tomten in Astrid Lindgren’s lovely books, The Tomten and The Tomten and the Fox.          www.skandisk.com

Every farmstead has a tomten – - a protective elf – - who watches over the farm at night, making his rounds in the deep of night.  No one ever sees him, just his tracks in the snow.  He keeps the people and animals safe from harm, telling the chickens to think of  the warm days of summer that will come again once more.  Compassionately understanding the fox’s hunger, he gives his bowl of porridge to the hungry fox, so he will not bother the chickens.

I looked up into the sky and – - from the depths my own consciousness on this deepest darkest night – - made a wish for our beautiful Earth and the 6 million people and the countless rocks, plants, and creatures who live here.

The leaves gone makes it feel like there is more space – - even tho there is not actually.  Rather,  it is that there is more empty space.

From our Elk Ridge perch , we can now see across to the ridge of South Mountain on the other side of Pleasant Valley.  The Appalachian Train goes along that ridge, usually obscured by leaves, that is, unless we go way up on our ridge to places  like Millennial View.

On Jan 1, 2000, we and our 2 Border Collie twin sisters got up very early and hiked way up to Millennial View.  We sat there on the rock and watched as the sun rose over South Mountain and ushered in a new millennium.

Today, it is russet with a spicy scent – - sharp from fallen, decaying leaves, no longer sweet – - gearing us up for the imminent, cold reality of winter.

How can this transformation have happened in one short week’s time?

When we were done talking, I brought my laptop out to the porch, and sat down to work.  Three hours later, I was done with that day’s installment, barely enough daylight left for me to see the screen.

After taking my computer back inside, then – - still wanting to be outside – - I went back out to our new van parked beside our porch.  We have taken out 3 of the 4 back seats and put in a small foam mattress on one side of the floor.  I crawled in and sat down on it to do my regular evening meditation, Autumn breeze coming in on all sides.

I think I am essentially a nomad – - my own special combination of Romany Gypsy and Native American.   One of the saddest of my life was that day in 1995 when our 1970 VW bus — owned by us since 1991 — met its self-immolated demise on a flat stretch going down our mountain.

I need the open air.   In it, my consciousness feels clean – - fluid, open, ready.

These days of coming cold, I am soaking up being outside doing my daily things.  With regret, I know we will soon have to close the doors and windows with the onset of winter.  I do love winter.  And I love open doors and windows.   I must find a way to generate enough internal heat to be able to work outside on my laptop in the depths of winter.

And so I love my mobile devices that help me live my modern, hyper-literate life in the outdoors as much as I can:  cell, laptop, van.

He was part tight-rope walker, part gymnast, part Marine scaling an obstacle course.

How did that squirrel jump from one branch — barely a twig — to another, and so high above the ground?  How did he so seemingly effortlessly hold on with his hind legs to that twig bending ominously far over, grab that acorn with his two front paws, and chow down enthusiastically?

Then he scampered off to another twig to do the  same thing there.

From my high-up window today, I cheered as that Olympic squirrel won himself a boatload of gold medals.

“Whew ! You have SOME driveway ! ” he said when he arrived after dark the night before – - after making his way up our long, steep driveway. “I’ll bet it’s really beautiful here, which I will be able to see for myself tomorrow in the daylight.”

This morning brought the advent of wind and rain bringing leaf showers.

How did the leaves so suddenly turn from green to yellow?

The light is different here in the time of Yellow Glow – - soft, easy, sweet – -  almost like the fabled golden light of Italy, where painters have flocked for centuries to try to capture what they see and feel.