Awarenesses from an unusually balmy autumn day last week.

I sit on the unroofed porch, listening, pondering, observing—a citizen of this world, alone; the sun shining unusually brilliant; maybe that’s just my imagination, but I don’t think so. The light illuminates the table on which I’m writing, creating flecks of green and purple never before seen by my sometimes “rushing through life” eyes.

The clock declares it’s seventy-six degrees in the sun as a motorcycle growls down the street at the end of the cul de sac; the sudden noise pushing me out of my reverie, but just for a moment.

Turning away from a man-made massive monstrosity of metal to concentrate on the magic, I see the lichen-covered bark of “The Tree,” a giant locust who shakes her head, tossing minuscule leaves through the air as her shedding phase continues—a process that’s invited many to say, “why don’t you chop that down,” but I love her—a canopy of delicate grace that allows the light in, standing firm despite her age.

The windchimes, half an acre away, sway in the breeze to the Westminster Quarters, reminding me of the grace of a London cathedral; as a helicopter overhead breaks the tranquility on this untypical October day.

The saturated pomegranate of the purple sand cherry blazes in her annual fall glory, while Leyland cypresses stand sentry. The amber, fawn, and muddied green leaves of the birches—with paper mache-like, curled bark—pirouette as the trees sway gently like a dog lazily stretching from a nap, in no hurry to leave.

Birds trill their afternoon melodies, rejoicing in a perfect weather day before the biting wintertide sets in. Their rustling songs dance as breezes move through the mighty evergreens, now old and thinning, having weathered many more storms than I have.

The potted Ficus and Scheffleras are still content residing at their summer home, wishing they could commune with nature all year yet aware that their time outdoors is waning. They lean in to catch the glint of the spinning whirlygig, knowing that their nature view will soon be from behind glass.

A novel, lent by a friend, is in my hand; letters jump from the pages through my eyes to my brain, which will process those individual symbols into profound words; life-changing language. I recognize how often the incredible gift of sight is taken for granted; how much of life is taken for granted.

The painted cerulean sky, punctuated by angelic clouds that migrate through the atmosphere, reminds me of the fragility of life and how tenuous it can be; how we often rush through to the end, unaware of what we’re missing in that race until those hours or days or years are simply lost to the unrecoverable past.

I don’t know how to capture this magnificence; I wish I was an artist, innovator, songwriter, or visionary like many of my friends, but all I have is my words. And, this day is called “Peace;” magical moments that matter; that embrace all my senses; these are the gifts that change the experience of life. And, I am blessed.