There is a particular sensation that arrives when the things we trust most begin to falter. It isn’t panic at first. It’s dizziness. A subtle disorientation, like stepping onto a stair that isn’t there. The body reacts before the mind can name what’s wrong. Your chest tightens. Your breath shortens. You reach instinctively for something solid, only to realize the familiar handhold has softened, cracked, or vanished altogether.

Every year, sometime in October, I begin listening for the soft, familiar call that whispers from the edges of the season. It’s a tug, a small invitation from the leaves that have begun to fall around me. I don’t gather many. Only the ones that seem to beckon, the ones that pause me in my tracks with their shape or their color or some quiet feeling I can’t quite name.

There are orchids that smell like chocolate. I try to remember that on the days when the world feels too heavy to hold, when the sky turns midnight at midday. Somewhere, not far from here, a flower is exhaling the scent of sweetness into the air. No one may be standing near it. No one may ever know it exists. Still, it breathes its fragrance into the invisible.

I sit with a steaming mug of Kona coffee on the north-facing lanai, the aroma rich and earthy, anchoring me to the present moment. The clouds tumble and scatter, parading across the sky, chased by unseen winds. Their shifting shades of gray and white create a restless backdrop, but through them, a deeper stillness is visible: the vast Pacific Ocean stretching far beyond the hamlet of Hawi.

Blackberries, salmonberries, thimbleberries, blackcaps, huckleberries—all once so abundant, now reduced to bare stems.I was struck by the sadness of the empty vines. The season of sweetness has passed, and what remains is absence.Where there were once small delights to pluck and savor, there are now only thorns, dry leaves, and the stark truth of change. Each vine seemed to whisper a quiet goodbye, and the emptiness felt heavy, like loss.

Patricia's purple poppies, standing tall, standing sure. Never floppy, never false, just beauty… pure. I catch them— as I turn the bend. My jaunty friend trotting ahead, morning light, earlybird flight… and suddenly— there they are again. This is my crying time. Quiet time. Safe from the eyes of strangers. When sorrow drops heavy, they steady me— lifting the weight,

It was a typical afternoon in the Dog Woods. Wally trotted ahead, his nose pulling him into small discoveries hidden along the trail. A friend and I followed behind, our feet brushing against leaves scattered on the ground. That, in itself, was surprising. August is not supposed to look this way. The canopy still shimmered green, but underfoot, autumn whispered too soon.

The morning was stitched in a quiet gold stillness, the kind that settles over the world just before the neighborly hum of awakening. The sky hung soft and open, with a promise of an easy burn-off and afternoon warmth. Wally and I were on the final leg of our morning walk, just coming out of the woods and onto the pavement.

Wally and I stroll down our quiet neighborhood street on a warm summer morning. The sun has not yet burned off the haze that lingers above the treetops, and the air smells faintly of fir needles and earth. Our daily jaunt always begins this way, with Wally trotting slightly ahead, nose to the ground, ears perked for gossip left behind by creatures of the night.

There’s a particular rhythm to island living—an unhurried pulse that doesn’t quite align with clocks, schedules, or the frantic pace of the mainland. Here on Guemes Island, the ferry is due at 10:00. Or maybe 10:00-ish. My daily walk with Wally, my four-legged companion, begins around 4-ish, after the sun slides just low enough to soften the path ahead. Dinnertime? Evening-ish.

I was away for only a week. Well, just over a week. Just ten days—and in that short span, the world here changed. The forest didn’t ask for my permission. The berry bushes didn’t pause their schedule for my return. Time, it seems, had gone on tending to things in my absence, as it always does. When I stepped back onto the familiar trail, the air felt the same—maybe a touch warmer, the light a bit more golden—but the changes revealed themselves quickly.

Awe, Death, and the Wonder of Small Things It was a small thing, really. A moment tucked between the mundane rituals of daily life—one of those chores that you do without thinking. I went out to unfurl the umbrella on the deck, thinking only of shade, of afternoon light, of coffee and a good book under its shelter. But when the canvas stretched open with a click and sigh, something dropped softly out.

I haven’t had an epiphany in a while. No sudden unraveling of some hidden meaning tucked inside a birdsong, no metaphor leaping out from a tangle of vines. I haven’t walked into the woods and stumbled into a portal of clarity, or watched the tide roll in with a life-altering message etched in seafoam. And yet, I keep looking. I listen to the birds each morning as they announce the day with their practiced chorus.

Space and Grace: The Quiet Architecture for Healing A few weeks ago, I texted a new Guemes-friend who I knew was going through a rough time. I didn’t have anything profound to offer—just a simple check-in, a quiet gesture to say, “I see you. I’m here.” Her response was warm and grateful, and she added something that has lingered with me ever since.

The Dog Woods smelled like freshly mown grass and yesterday’s rain. The sun was fully engaged in a tug-of-war with heavy clouds. The entire day had teetered between elements, as if nature herself hadn’t yet decided: would it be brightness or gloom, breeze or burn? The only thing certain was the shifting mood of it all. Wally trotted ahead with his usual bounce, tail high and ears tuned to every rustle.

We are a species obsessed with counting. From the moment we wake, numbers shepherd our decisions. We check the time, count the hours of sleep we didn’t get, track steps taken, calories consumed, and messages unread. Our days are measured in minutes and hours, dollars and cents, deadlines and due dates. This is the math of modern life—precise, efficient, relentless.

Wally and I were halfway through our afternoon loop in the Dog Woods, ambling along the dappled trail where sunlight filtered through early spring leaves. It was one of those first truly warm days—when jackets feel unnecessary by mid-morning and the breeze carries not just birdsong but the scent of thawing soil, sun-warmed bark, and the first new fern fronds, reaching toward the sun and unfurling their filigree fingers as if to take spring by the hand and walk it toward summer.

It is a sunny afternoon, but the air still carries a crispness along with the earthy scent of damp soil and fresh greenery as Wally and I set out on our usual walk through the woods. Today, however, we are not alone. A friend has joined us, and the rare sunshine filters through the still-bare branches, casting long, golden streaks across the path.

Nettles rise, soft-fierce,three inches of promise,leaves unfolding to taste the damp breath of March.The huckleberry buds blush—small lanterns of pinkon spindly limbs, still remembering winter Grass deepens in hue,moss drinks the light,ferns straighten their spines,ready to welcome the delicate unfurl of new kin.Even the wind moves differently,gentler, as if coaxing.

Up the grassy boulevardThe barren alders stretchTheir moss-hairy bone-limbs worn brittleBy Winter’s chilling breath. They reach out for rightingOf their perilous posture, leaning askanceAs if they stand a chanceagainst the mandate of gravity,against the burden of circumstance. In standing still upon inspection,A tap-tap-tapping! steals my attention.A woodland rapping, clear with intention.

She lies beside the trail,one arm draped in verdant curls of fern, the otherangled beneath her, fingers sinkingslowly into the yearning earth. Once, she stood sturdy and stable,spine unbent, shoulders broad,her voice a rustling hushagainst the wind’s insistent weight. Now, her ribs split open,moss thick on her skin,her breath a damp exhale of spores.

Snow clings to the tippy-tops of evergreens,high on Cypress Island, where winter holds fastin silent grasp. The slate-grey waves of Bellingham Channelcurl, then collapse, resigned to frost-veined cold. At my temples, a dusting of grey—Winter’s scouts arrive, their breath on the air,its shadow drawing near. The crows have been idle,lurking at the corners of my sight,

Some trudge through winter, step by sloppy step,muttering grievances under their breath:"It’s cold. It’s dark. It’s wet," they say—as if the sky owes them blue. Yet this season holds its quiet gifts,a softened hush, a space between.Sometimes the surprise of nature’s artful arcsits like a secret, a gentle placeto impart calm, perhaps some peace,

The trees closed in like old friends whispering ancient secrets that the north-facing moss had picked up from the wind.  A chilly breeze nudged the softwood sentries into and against each othe…