The Change

What a difference a few weeks makes. We've gone from cooling off on a sunny deck to warming our frigid fingers by a blazing fire. This will be one of the last few weekends spent at our place of peace - also known as Falconridge, our summer cottage. It's been rainy and cold for most of the weekend and our electric heaters are working overtime to get the inside temperature up above 12 C.

Time to start "the close" - pull the boats out of the water, ready the docks for the ice, tuck the chairs and umbrellas under the cottage, and lastly, pull the water lines out of the lake. Summer has past and "the change" has begun. Me and the lake have that in common - we're both going through the change, albeit I'm a little farther along in the process.  My feelings are mixed as I watch the brittle birch tree leaves flutter to the ground, signalling a time to pack away our precious summertime memories and say good bye for another year.

It's also a season of great beauty, with crimson and burnt orange foliage that goes out in a blaze of glory. I always get a little flutter in my stomach when change is imminent; maybe it is the prospect of new possibilities and eager anticipation of what is to come. And so I will soak up these last few hours at the lake and look to the adventures that lay before me. I have lots to look forward to, and even more to appreciate.

Here are some captures from our wet autumn weekend at the lake for your viewing pleasure.

Transitions

I remember from giving birth that "transition" is the most difficult part of  ->what-is-supposedly-> the most natural of all processes. I learned that just when things in life start to change - often in the most painful of ways - and at the exact point of when you think you've reach your breaking point, your full capacity, you transition into a new paradigm. You've been tested; you endure, and you inure.

We adjust to our new reality and if we are truly adept, we embrace it and go forward stronger and with wisdom borne of experience.

So here at cottage land, in our place of peace, nature is serving up advance notice, warning signals that she is entering transition. And soon the lazy, humid days of summer will be filed under "memories 2013" and the mysterious ways Mother Earth will reveal themselves. The birch leaves will yellow and be the first to fall; they already are. The maples will don brilliant crimson and fiery orange before shedding their cloaks to stand bare and tall to face the Canadian winter.

But for this weekend, the last weekend of the summer, we will give a nod to the signals and cherish these last few days at the lake. Autumn will arrive soon enough an with it, bring its own label of stunning. There will be great beauty in this beloved season of transition, as well as a little sadness that yet another year has passed. But as with any transition, there will be more goodness and blessings to come.

In the Early Morn

There is something mystical about the early hours of morn when the world is hushed in slumber. This morning I awoke to a crystalline snowy winter wonderland, glistening in the fading moonlight. I thought about reaching for my camera, opting instead to capture the image to  memory.  I stole a few moments in the silence, pausing to breathe - to take it all in. Today is going to be a really good day.

Then it was out the door to greet the hectic and the routine of the commute. The snow was wet and heavy -- perfect snowball making conditions. I made a mini snowman and planted it on hubby's car and carved my signature hearts and smiles on his windshield.

The tranquility of the morn was a perfect beginning, not to be repeated for the rest of the day. But no matter; the gift was accepted, and cherished. And for that, I am truly grateful.

Haze of Glory

With just a few days left in October, and our autumn about to to out in a blaze of glory, I can't resist squeezing in another post  about fall. Afterall, I owe it to my favourite season...

For us Canadians, weather plays a dominant role in our lives. We talk about it, think about it and complain about it ALOT. We have the Weather Network shortcut on our desktops; we tune into the weather forecast that follows our 11 PM newscast so we can plan how many sweaters we need to wear the next day or see if we need extra time getting to work. The same goes for our seasons ... they are always the top of conversation.

Autumn is special. It sneaks in as summer fades; its arrival - discreet. Then there comes the morning when you step out into the dark, damp chill to find everything covered in a dusting of frost.  Autumn is like a party girl -- arriving quietly and then bursting out in a flambuoyant show of personality and colour, fast and furious - and fading before the party ends. By the time the leaves complete their spectacular transition, you have but a few days to take the beauty in. You can't delay taking that shot you want to capture ... the magnificent foliage is fleeting. And that is why autumn is special. It teaches us to live fully in the moment and appreciate that which we have NOW.

Any day now, all of our trees will be bleak and bare ... but only for a short while ... until they are blanketed with snow. But that will be another post ....

Sunday Ice Screen

This is a perfect day -- a lazy, have-no-plans day - my favourite variety! It snowed all night and poor hubby was shovelling for almost 2 hours this morning. He has a different take on the snow. While I am all bundled up, drinking hot tea by the fire, expounding (writing) on the beauty to be found in the winter scene - he is breaking a sweat (not to mention his back) over a shovel. Thanks hubby.

Hubby came with me on a photo-find drive this morning and we drove to our favourite spot down at the harbour. I am always in awe how the harbour transforms from a bustling hub catering to boaters, tourists and locals who love their waterfront - into an icy, desolate vastland for ducks and geese who forgot to migrate south.

It was a special hour for hubby and I, looking and photographing the beauty in the ice and snow. Hubby was disappointed that he didn't have bread with him (he hadn't expected the birds to be there) and warned me that the next time he was bringing bread along to feed the birds - even though we aren't supposed to. He is my Dr. Doolittle. We didn't have to look hard to see beauty in the overcast grey morning. And that is like life -- if we just pay attention -- we will see a world filled with beauty -- and it is almost always found in small moments and simple things.

I have included a few of my shots in this post ...