Autumn arrives slowly here. The mornings grow crisp, and the evenings begin to fall earlier. There is a hush that settles over the fields — not silence, but a soft exhale. In the cottage, I swap linens for wool, light the fire, and gather the first windfall apples from the orchard path.

The turn of the year brings with it a shift in pace. Where summer was loud and full, autumn whispers. It invites reflection. It asks us to rest.

I relish the rituals of this season. Mulling cider on the stove, steeping spices into the air. Gathering baskets of leaves and berries, arranging them in bowls beside the hearth. Wearing layers again — shawls, mittens, thick socks — not as burdens, but as comforts.

There’s also the harvest — literal and emotional. I take stock of the garden, noting what thrived and what didn’t. I journal more, letting thoughts wander like smoke. I reread books I love, their pages worn and familiar.

This is also a season for foraging. The hedgerows offer rose hips, sloes, and late blackberries. There’s a quiet satisfaction in filling jars with preserves, lining them on the shelf like amber jewels.

Nature, too, begins to retreat. Trees burn golden and red before letting go. Birds gather and depart. The air smells of earth and woodsmoke.

And so I try to mirror the land: to let go of what no longer serves, to prepare for a quieter time, to find joy in stillness.

Autumn can feel melancholic, but I think it’s a beautiful kind of melancholy. It reminds us that endings are not failures — they’re part of the cycle. Without decay, there is no growth.

So light a candle. Make soup. Walk through leaves and let them crackle beneath your feet.

And let this season teach you what it means to rest without guilt, to slow without losing purpose, and to find abundance in simplicity.

Because autumn, in all its russet beauty, is not the end — it is a gentle turning.

And in that turning, there is grace.