It is easy this time of year to slip into meditations on death and dying. It is autumn and leaves cover the ground, a few trees still cling to their leaves but whips of wind will strip them bare in a few short days. The gardens have been put to bed and the last of our kale was harvested for breakfast this morning. We are surrounded by signs of what no longer is, of life lost. This is the rhythm of seasons, of change, but as I get older I seem to fear this change, this loss of life, a little more each year. I have spent years living in places where the variation in temperature does not swing it's pendulum as extremely as it does here. To be honest though, at least then, I craved winter. I craved the hibernation that never came. But as we stand on the doorstep of winter's silences, life laid dormant, I am holding, fists clenched, at least for the next few weeks as I adjust to the internal drive to be outside and the psychological resistance to bone chilling cold, on to the vibrant memory of the glory days of Spring, Summer and Fall.