I am borrowing a line from the end of  Himanee’s last post:

Perhaps the fall is the time to slow down. To take in the newness, to approach the new calendar slowly as if it is our support and not our penalizer....

This comment resonated well, as I have decided in the past month that my fall was going to be a continuation of my summer in the sense of balance and richness that has come from it. Some work, regular time off, hiking and paddling with friends, some travel, and lots of writing.  I have just returned from several days in northern Vermont spent with friends along the shore of Lake Champlain, and kayaking out to the islands. Life seems naturally slow and idyllic in this part of Vermont. The water and wind are constant soundscapes. There is little chance of moving too fast. The roads don’t allow for it, and the scenery captures much of your attention. The peaks of the Adirondacks drape the far western horizon in changing hues. The Green mountains to the east balance the visual drama.

I have always loved fall, in part for the promise of new experiences, ideas, and learning. In part for the cooler weather. I have worked in higher ed since 1990 so it’s been a constant in my life.  And that will be the case this fall, but I am choosing to decide more consciously this time what those work and learning activities will be, rather than have them all decided for me. I hope to soon have a conference chosen to attend, will be heading to our college’s Adirondack Residency in October, and am in the process of contacting a potential mentor in Vermont to provide feedback and guidance as I put together my new book of poetry, my first full length one. I feel I've written enough poems by now, gotten enough published, and have had enough encouragement to take the next step. It's time.

Putting together a book of poetry is a rich and unique experience. On the advice of a wise poet, I have spent time sifting through my poems, and noting the themes, feelings, settings, and ideas within them. I have found some that I thought were about one thing, such as a particular place, are really more about a relationship. But I also see now how inextricably intertwined place and relationships are for me.  Other poems, such as ones that seemed to focus on a difficult experience, were really about growth and transformation. These poems have shown to me hidden facets of their content, and have revealed new layers of meaning. My poems seem to fall into six different theme areas and I have been letting them sit for a while on a large table in my home to see what they have to say to each other. To see if together they create a larger unifying theme, an important aspect of a book of poetry.  Of many things.

So poetry has been showing me once again, about listening. About being still, quieting one’s thoughts, letting go of one’s (or another's) agenda and becoming attuned to a deeper agenda. One that works at more of a soul level. If our soul is not on board with what we are doing in our lives, things are not going to go well, or at least not for long. I know if I don’t make myself quiet enough, mindful enough, and singularly focused for at least part of each day, I will miss those deeper messages and before long I feel the consequences.

As we watched the late day light descend over Lake Champlain and the Adirondacks, the deeper contours of the mountains emerged, evoking subtle nuances of feeling. This kind of light – it’s a little like being quiet, a little like listening. A little like poetry.