Forgot your password?

We just sent you an email, containing instructions for how to reset your password.

Sign in

  • Barefoot in my garden, I sense the comfort of pumpkin pies and hot stews wafting on the breeze.

    I felt the shift several days ago. The sun's rays are still summer strong in the mid of the day, the evenings are cool and the mornings crisp.

    I haven't heard the song of the robin in several weeks. I felt her early departure hinted at the nearing changing of the seasonal guard.

    If I could capture any time of year and hold it, this is it. The fun-filled, fruit-gorged, water-logged days of summer and the imminent comfort season of hot apple ciders and pumpkin pie in the air. Leaves turning colours of such richness and depth that no man-made palette could ever compare. Just around the corner.

    Pulling on a comfy sweater and taking up position on the front step, steaming tea in hand, I am perfectly content. This is my season. This in-between seasons. Like a pause between thoughts. The silence between lovers. The space between the inhale and exhale. The fondness of what just was and the anticipation of what comes, yet not committed to either. The perfect pause.

    Right at the entrance of harvest time. Reflecting on the growth that spring and summer yields. New adventures, experiences. Lazy sunny mornings and late star-filled nights. Not always easy as summer packs a heat and usually more than one fire breaks out. It's this between season that allows me to look back over the summer and see the new growth that emerges from the burning up of old issues, emotions and behaviours. To see what I tended in my own garden, what flourished under my care and what weeds I pulled out by their roots. Sometimes it wasn't a weed, but a plant, a flower I'd enjoyed for years that was now overgrown and blocking my path.

    In this between season, this perfect pause, nothing is needed. Summer is allowed to drift as the pending harvest will require much energy. Life will get busy. I will collect what has grown, plow under the rest. Decide what to do with my bounty. School will start again. The summer hours of businesses will return to more regulated schedules. Lunches will need to be packed. Clients will return from holidays requiring a compassionate ear and a wise word to assist them with their own harvest. And I will start making pies. Pumpkin pies with warm spices like cinnamon and cloves.

    But not now. Now I sit, I breathe, I dream, I settle. In the pause. In the between.
    • Share

    Connected stories:


Collections let you gather your favorite stories into shareable groups.

To collect stories, please become a Citizen.

    Copy and paste this embed code into your web page:

    px wide
    px tall
    Send this story to a friend:
    Would you like to send another?

      To retell stories, please .

        Sprouting stories lets you respond with a story of your own — like telling stories ’round a campfire.

        To sprout stories, please .

            Better browser, please.

            To view Cowbird, please use the latest version of Chrome, Safari, Firefox, Opera, or Internet Explorer.