One Sentence A Day

October's daily observations

Something as simple as writing a single sentence demands I be present, even if just for a few moments, to reflect.

One Sentence A Day - October

1.    I have decided to break my next writing project into seasons with each season halved into two parts to maximize the natural landscape observations for a full 365 days.

2.    A bushel of Honeycrisp apples and six pumpkins, each different in color and size and expression brings me as much joy as the bag of apple cider donuts I picked up at the same time.

3.    The two mushrooms I have been observing daily since August 18 are now scraggly like old, dried honeycomb.

4.    When teaching a workshop about nutritious and filling food in the backcountry, the young participant told me how she really liked the curry flavor of the gorp I prepared for tasting and my hope, for young people, was instantly renewed.

5.    Unseen in the darkness, the yellow jacket in my water bottle is really bad for my face.

6.    When the program director asked me how teaching went today, I told him I unloaded information like a firehose.

7.    Cauliflower, a head so large from a home garden stand on the side of the road is worth asking why ever buy from the corporate market.

8.    Fog hangs thick in the valley hiding hillsides empty of green but in blustery shades of orange.

9.    My hike today to catch autumn colors that seem to transform so quickly, reminds me of an essay topic, two, or three that need to be written.

10.  40s and misty—neither a good enough reason to delay a walk outside.

11.  I stare at the milkweed with its strands of silk-like hair and brown seeds that resemble shrunken troll ears.

12.  Slender tendrils from the chimney drift towards the marsh with the ashy scent of wood that mingles with decaying leaves.

13.  Armed with a Pulaski, I turn the wheat beds, sprinkle with seeds, and cover with a bail of straw from the chicken coop—a bail nearly two years old and fairly rotten.

14.  The first snow of the season sprinkles the winterberry bushes and the individual leaves leaving the cardinal red berries to shine.

15.  Over the granite water spills, momentarily stops, and rolls back on herself from a choke of leaves before pushing over the next crack of space to fall again onto granite.

16.  The origin of mountain streams is like the origin of tears, patent to understanding but mysterious to the sense. (p 56 Mary Austin, The Land of Little Rain “Water Borders”)

17.  I stand in place watching the grass thaw from the overnight freeze as sun rays warm the water to thaw.

18.  Pie pumpkin stuffed with spice cake mix and baked for two hours leaves the outside of the pumpkin a dark ghoulish color.

19.  A big pile of leaves smells of pieces broken and crunch as I sit in its depth where I squirm about to amplify the sound only playing in leaves can bring.

20.  After I finished the outdoor chores and closed the barn door, I squatted on my heels to touch the ground for a moment of gratitude.

21.  Pastel layers of color on the pond, reflected from the setting sun, give my photograph an impressionist whim.

22.  I love the sound of leaves as I kick them upwards to unhide my swallowed feet.

23.  An acquaintance and I spent three hours in the car, and we laughed long and hard about my unwillingness to buy a grinder for my wheat berries.

24.  I do not mind when my pant knees get wet from getting down at eye level to investigate tiny paths of animals moving to and fro.

25.  A slow walk intended to peer into the leafless branches, I find four different nest types, each empty and me not knowledgeable enough to know who homed there.

26.  When the breeze blows, I stand in the field allowing it to lash my outer layers and tangle my hair.

27.  Today I walked in the accumulated leaves attempting to make no noise of my passing.

28.  I spent 20 minutes simply looking at the grandma maples today and realized I had it all wrong, these maples are looking towards the ridge not down into the pasture.

29.  A state-wide fire band born of little rain, dry winds, and a proliferation of parched brown leaves.

30.  I wrote a letter to the droplet I observed on a beech tree leaf last week thanking her for our shared moments, even if brief.

31.  Last day of the month and we have no human trick-or-treaters, but that masked family continues to roam—their footprints a dead giveaway.