by Lori Carlson 10/2025

This morning, I step outside
and breathe the hush within the season—
that tender pause when summer sighs goodbye
and autumn answers.
The air carries the scent of turning—
apple skin, damp soil,
the faint sweetness of pine,
a whisper of smoke from somewhere unseen.

Each falling leaf is a sermon today—
gold, crimson, or brown,
all teaching the same truth:
to release is holy,
to let go is not loss,
but the way we make room for more light.

A breeze stirs, and the trees respond
with a language of rustle and shimmer.
Sunlight spills through their thinning crowns
like grace through stained glass, forgiveness through time.
In the distance, geese trace a letter
only heaven can read.

I walk slowly, listening.
The Earth hums beneath my feet,
a vibration older than words, both ancient and alive.
Moss softens the path;
stones remember rain.
Somewhere, a crow calls out—
a single note that reminds me
sound itself is sacred when I listen with an open heart.

In Science of Mind, we say
God is all there is—
no separation between Spirit and soil,
between the One and the ordinary.
So I bend to touch a fallen leaf,
and know I am touching the Infinite.

Every acorn is an idea
taking shape in time.
Every breeze that brushes my face
is the breath of Life,
reminding me that the same Power
that paints the sky in October hues
moves through me, as me.

To honor Earth is to honor this self—
not the small self of striving,
but the spacious Self
that belongs to everything.
The one who kneels before the sunset,
who sees divinity in dew.

I hear the creek beneath the bridge
singing its endless hymn,
each ripple catching light,
each drop returning home.
A hawk wheels above me—
wings outstretched, effortless—
an image of what freedom looks like
when trust and air are one, when we let the currents carry us home.

Each step becomes a quiet amen.
Each heartbeat, a note in the great song.
Within the falling leaves
I am both giver and receiver
of this sacred exchange.

So I walk with reverence.
Every bird that crosses my path
is a blessing,
every rustle in the trees,
a reminder:
Creation is ongoing—
this beauty, this breath,

This sacred, circling of seasons

is Spirit, revealing Itself again.