Last night was our first true frost. When I arrived at the studio this morning, the last of the bees clinging to the nest by my door had disappeared. All their hard work was done, the new queens had fledged, the nest was no longer needed so they gave themselves over to the flow of life, as are the leaves swirling in the autumn wind and the rest of the natural world in preparation for what comes next.

We all have to learn when to let go. Sometimes we do so with great relief or without a second thought. But sometimes we have a real struggle. Even when we know deep down that what we are holding has served its purpose it is tempting to convince ourselves otherwise. The empty place in our lives release creates has a lot of unknowns and asks for a lot of trust. We want to be know what task  is waiting, or whose hand will be there, or where the start lies to a new path. It requires a lot of courage. Maybe then it would be helpful to remember that to let go is to put something down and to release means to set free.

I have walked through many lives,                         Yet I turn, I turn
some of them my own,                                          exulting somewhat,
and I am not who I was,                                       with my will intact to go
though some principle of being                              wherever I need to go,
abides, from which I struggle                                 and every stone on the road
not to stray.                                                           precious to me.
When I look behind,                                              In my darkest night,
as I am compelled to look                                     when the moon was covered
before I can gather strength                                   and I roamed through wreckage,
to proceed on my journey,                                     a nimbus-clouded voice
I see the milestones dwindling                                directed me:
toward the horizon                                                "Live in the layers,
and the slow fires trailing                                        not on the litter."
from the abandoned camps-sites,                           Though I lack the art
over which scavenger angels                                  to decipher it,

wheel on heavy wings.                                           no doubt the next chapter

              ****                                                       in my book of transformations

                                                                             is already written.

                                                                             I am not done with my changes.

                                                  Stanley Kunitz, "The Layers", from The Wild Braid