The October garden silently bursts with Shasta daisies, Russian sage and the fading purple blooms of Hyssop. Bees still contentedly hum and the last of the butterflies linger amid the dwindling petals of pink phlox. I inhaled the October air and felt the sweet comfort of my precious garden as it settles into it's next phase of being. I feel a bit like my garden, my prime season is past but I am consoled with the thought that as life continues and priorities change, I can be comfortable with myself; silvering hair, crows-feet and all the maladies that seem to go hand in hand with aging. The more I think on it, the more I rather like the idea of being 60. It is a good number.
(These birdies in the garden are from a painted papercutting I just finished last week. )