Autumn Maine

The air is crisp and cool and dense. The sky is icy blue. The light is soft and even. Muted and translucent. A beam of light rakes sharply down, as it passes through the frost, and strikes each blade of scented grass like strands of crystal jade. If you listen very carefully, you can hear the clouds exhale.

Sculpted into shapes and forms—this ethereal creation—are tiers of vibrant colors all staggered in perspective. Rocks against the sloping hills. Trees against the coastline. The whiteness of the  broken waves. The blueness of the water. The soul of Andrew Wyeth is painted on this landscape; the exquisiteness and purity of transcendent isolation.

It is always there, but rarely seen, this dichotomy of Nature. The colors that have come to life as the leaves begin to die. The illuminated darkness as the moon begins to wane. The rise and fall of eventide, in lunar syncopation. Delicate but harsh at times. Restless but serene. Each moment carries with it both memory and promise. Of things now past, but soon to come. Of being and becoming. 

If perception is reality, and reality is truth, then truth be told, the choice is yours to believe or not believe. In who you are. In what you want. In where you want to be. To live the life you have imagined by believing in yourself. 

This is the essence of an autumn Maine, this harmonious duality; the permanence of change itself, and the newness that it brings. A transitioning from what has been, to what becomes again. 

 The landscape of a life well-lived, one season at a time.