Weather is changing now. Thaw and icy wind were my companions on today’s walk.
While I write these words rain is drumming on the roof.
Autumn Conundrum
It’s not that every leaf must finally fall . . .
it’s just that we can never catch them all.
by Michael R. Burch
There is a warning of snow in the air today. It’s cold by the lake and clouds are looming at a blue sky.
The cold was our pride, the snow was our beauty. It fell and fell, lacing day and night together in a milky haze, making everything quieter as it fell, so that winter seemed to partake of religion in a way no other season did, hushed, solemn.
Patricia Hampl
Clouds gather, treetops toss and sway;
But pour us wine, an old one!
That we may turn this dreary day
To golden, yes, to golden!
Autumn has come, but never fear,
Wait but a little while yet,
Spring will be here, the skies will clear,
And fields stand deep in violets.
The heavenly blue of fresh new days
Oh, friend, you must employ them
Before they pass away. Be brave!
Enjoy them; oh, enjoy them!
Theodor Storm, A Song in October
Note
I kan læse mere om Agersø og Rude Skov her hos Naturstyrelsen
God tur derude og husk madpakken.
Det er sidste chance for at opleve naturens farver, nu tager blæsten det smukke gyldne løv.
The sun breaks through the clouds, and illuminates the bright golden birch trees.
Still, the impression is diffused. As if the colours are more important than the contours.
Has nature decided that today’s colours are the most important issue?
The blueberry rice is empty, but a few hidden blackberries are full of sweetness and memories of the summer’s bounteous harvest of luscious berries.
This place is fairy land. There is no doubt.
Fairy Dust is essential.
Where the bee sucks, there suck I:
In a cowslip’s bell I lie;
There I couch when owls do cry,
On the bat’s back I do fly
After summer merrily.
Merrily, merrily shall I live now
Under the blossom that hangs on the bough.
by William Shakespeare
Faith is the bird that feels the light when the dawn is still dark.
– Rabindranath Tagore
I did it. Went for the golden hour yesterday evening. That was an amazing evening. Remember to break the habit and experience new things.
“There comes a time when autumn asks,
“What have you been doing all summer?”
By all these lovely tokens
September days are here,
With summer’s best of weather
And autumn’s best of cheer
– Helen Hunt Jackson, September
When autumn darkness falls, what we will remember are the small acts of kindness: a cake, a hug, an invitation to talk, and every single rose. These are all expressions of a nation coming together and caring about its people.
– Jens Stoltenberg
Notes
You can read more about these meadows here: Søllerød Naturpark
How I Go to the Woods, by Mary Oliver
Ordinarily I go to the woods alone, with not a single friend, for they
are all smilers and talkers and therefore unsuitable.I don’t really want to be witnessed talking to the catbirds or hugging
the old black oak tree. I have my way of praying, as you no doubt have yours.Besides, when I am alone I can become invisible. I can sit on the top of
a dune as motionless as an uprise of weeds, until the foxes run by unconcerned. I can hear the almost unhearable sound of the roses
singing.If you have ever gone to the woods with me, I must love you very much.
This morning I watched the deer
with beautiful lips touching the tips
of the cranberries, setting their hooves down
in the dampness carelessly, isn’t it after all
the carpet of their house, their home, whose roof
is the sky?
Why, then, was I suddenly miserable?
Well, this is nothing much.
This is the heaviness of the body watching the swallows
gliding just under that roof.
This is the wish that the deer would not lift their heads
and leap away, leaving me there alone.
This is the wish to touch their faces, their brown wrists –
to sing some sparking poem into
the folds of their ears.then walk with them,
over the hills
and over the hills
and into the impossible trees.This Morning I Watched the Deer, by Mary Oliver
Sometimes I have a heartfelt joy to wander aimlessly.
I didn’t plan this walk. A walk among hawthorns and deers towards the coast of Øresund.
All my worries are left and the only thing that counts is the present moment.
Our brain needs a break so our spirit can live.
There is an art to wandering. If I have a destination, a plan – an objective – I’ve lost the ability to find serendipity. I’ve become too focused, too single-minded. I am on a quest, not a ramble. I search for the Holy Grail of particularity, and miss the chalice freely offered, filled full to overflowing.
by Cathy Johnson, On Becoming Lost
A thing of beauty is a joy for ever:
Its lovliness increases; it will never
Pass into nothingness; but still will keep
A bower quiet for us, and a sleep
Full of sweet dreams, and health, and quiet breathing.
Therefore, on every morrow, are we wreathing
A flowery band to bind us to the earth,
Spite of despondence, of the inhuman dearth
Of noble natures, of the gloomy days,
Of all the unhealthy and o’er-darkn’d ways
Made for our searching: yes, in spite of all,
Some shape of beauty moves away the pall
From our dark spirits. Such the sun, the moon,
Trees old and young, sprouting a shady boon
For simple sheep; and such are daffodils
With the green world they live in; and clear rills
That for themselves a cooling covert make
‘Gainst the hot season; the mid-forest brake,
Rich with a sprinkling of fair musk-rose blooms:
And such too is the grandeur of the dooms
We have imagined for the mighty dead;
An endless fountain of immortal drink,
Pouring unto us from the heaven’s brink.A Thing Of Beauty by John Keats
A walk in Rude Skov among raspberry and beetles.
‘There is a crack in everything.
That’s how the light gets in.’¹
– even through the dark clouds.
____________________________
¹. Leonard Cohen, Selected Poems, 1956-1968
HANNA'S WALK 
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