This afternoon, Rachel and I took a walk to the end of the road to collect the mail.  I make the short trip and back (about a quarter mile each way) most days and find it a good time to ponder and reflect if I am by myself.  When Rachel joins me, it is an equally fine opportunity for us to chat about matters both trivial and profound.  There is something about walking and talking that stimulates my thinking.

Late afternoon is almost always a relaxed time of the day.  In summer, I can feel the earth’s relief (and can almost hear a collective sigh) as the sun starts to set and the temperature cools.  The energy of the surrounding growth and of life being lived—exemplified by the constant thrum of the crickets and cicadas—is still palpable but the mood begins to change from the serious concentration of the workday to the celebratory levity of the night.  I leave the house having completed a hard day’s work and when I return, it is time for dinner.

At this time of year, the day-ending quiet starts much earlier.  I still feel the passage of the sun (and a much more pronounced drop in temperature) but with winter almost here, there is also the feeling of imminent bedtime, of the plants and wildlife settling in for sleep.  There are few natural sounds—wind through the now-bare trees; a brook burbling with ice-cold water—and that gives me a sense that the flow of energy is slowing.  It creates a state of restful equanimity that helps prepare me for the long winter ahead.

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