By late afternoon, the sun slips behind the trees and the house fills with that amber kind of light that only happens in October. The air smells faintly of woodsmoke.
Every day the light leaves a little earlier, and I find myself gathering it up when I can — lighting candles, baking bread, setting soup to simmer before the sun is gone.
Around the house, we've been surrounding ourselves with little reminders of warmth — a puzzle (or two!) linger on the table, a stack of favorite books, a tiny treasure, leaf, or stone sitting on the kitchen widow sill. The colors — warm reds, ochre, faded gold — feel like a quiet echo of the season itself.
Sometimes I think beauty is another kind of fire: a way to keep hope lit.
It’s been a long year in the world. I can feel it in the faces I see in town. It’s in the headlines and in the heaviness people carry, a sense that the world has grown harder around the edges. Maybe that’s why I’ve been drawn to small, ordinary acts that don't involve a screen, acts that feel almost like a meditation — stacking wood, stirring soup, taking long walks in the woods.
These are the small fires I can tend when so much feels too big.
As the autumn season deepens, I keep coming back to the idea that resilience isn’t about simply getting through or waiting for the light to return — it’s about how we kindle our own light and hold one another through the dark times.
The light will return, but for now this season invites us to slow down and draw close. To rest, yes, but not to turn away. We keep the warmth alive by turning toward each other — by listening, by showing up, by remaining steadfast.
For me, these are the lessons in light from a darkening season, these are my acts of defiance — to keep tending to one another, to stay kind, and to believe that even our smallest acts of care can see us through. To say, I won't be hardened. And I refuse to look away.
“Hope is a candle lit in defiance of the wind.” — Anonymous proverb
So if you’re tired, light your own small fire tonight. Make something with your hands. Read a book. Call someone you love. Maybe resilience isn’t about always shining brightly, but about staying lit — about the small, steadfast work of tending what’s good.
Thanks for reading, friends. Take care of each other.
xo Lori
