In the guest room downstairs, the south and west-facing windows are framed with whimsical strands of lights in the shape of bees. I like to turn them on at night to soften the sharper edges of the room’s decor (affectionately called Country Accumulation, Twenty Years’ Worth) while I write, or sew, or paint, or bind a journal. It’s a multi-purpose space that our guests don’t seem to mind, and the bee lights round out the eclectic artist vibe. Plus, I like bees for their industriousness. There’s always something to do in the hive. My fidgety soul can relate.

(Funny, these inanimate bees giving me wise counsel from their perch on the curtain rods haven’t moved since I hung them there—the opposite of their buzzing, living counterparts).

Last night, while Patrick was out for a meeting an hour away, I drove a couple loads of clean but damp laundry (bedding, most of his sock-and-underwear drawer, pants I’ll need for work this week) four miles up the road to the small-town laundromat for a luxurious and warm tumble in one of the big commercial dryers. We haven’t had a dryer since we moved here, or a television, or a microwave. It’s ok—we’ve done just fine without them most days. In the spring and summer, line-dried sheets and a single cotton blanket are sheer heaven on a warm evening. But on a cold night in mid-autumn, soft and warm bedsheets straight from the dryer are a damn sight more comfortable than crisp and stiff air-dried ones fresh off the retractable clothesline installed in the upstairs guest room (its decor affectionately called Country Office With A Generous Side Of eBay Items Waiting For Buyers). Between now and April, I’ll probably make a handful of these trips and won’t even mind if the roads are snowy.

It’s these soft and warm sheets that hold us fast in the dark hours of a winter workday morning, after my inner “alarm” goes off around 4;30, announcing that it’s nearly time to become considerably more uncomfortable for the next 45 minutes, bare feet touching a cold floor, muscles and bones reluctantly warming up and into those eventual feel-good hip flexor stretches and 60-second planks. I like how I feel after I exercise, but I also appreciate the indulgence of a good sleep-in. When it’s dark and cold at 6:30 in the morning, I’d rather stay horizontal, warm, and wrapped in laundromat-tumbled sheets. Who wouldn’t?

As I returned home and pulled up to the house in the dark, a strong skunk scent smacked me in the face before I’d even gotten out of the truck; I immediately wondered which of the kittens had had the unfortunate encounter. It’s their inaugural autumn with us, and their curiosity hasn’t found the “off” switch yet. Two weeks ago, Bumper was nose-to-nose with a possum twice his weight beneath the bird feeders, and it actually seemed to be going well, as first meeting go. After a few cautious sniffs and circling about’s, each one went forward with his original agenda, no territorial snarling or furry fisticuffs. And thankfully, none of the cats has ever come home whimpering and smelling of a skunk’s last word, so my next thought was simply that skunks sometimes get startled. As I gazed upward into a clear and star-encrusted night sky, I accepted the fact that skunks are out and about after the sun goes down. Our cats are the indoor/outdoor variety, and life is about taking risks, no matter who you are. I unloaded the still-warm sheets and blankets as quickly and respectfully as I could, and left the wild community outside to its own devices.

At least once a day, I realize that living where we do is a continuous and cyclical parade of who’s awake and who’s asleep and who’s flying overhead to get somewhere warmer. It’s hard not to notice the absence of certain creatures when they call it a season and settle down for the winter. There are days when I so want to join them, sleeping off the relentless pace of an over-filled spring and summer. Autumn slows us down a little, clocks turned back an hour mess with our sleep rhythms for a week or two, and then, when winter fully encircles us with its cold snowy breath, we adjust our routines to allow more time for scraping windshields, shoveling off the porch, bundling up, and leaving extra space between us and the car ahead. As much as I love each season for the unique beauty it brings us, when I finally do retire, I fully expect “winter morning commutes” to top the list entitled “What I Won’t Miss About My Full-time Job”. I’m romantic but I’m no fool.

I don’t know where bees go when it gets cold. As soon as I’m finished posting this, my fidgety soul and I will do the research. I hope they push some instinctual buzzy pause button and take a well-earned and protracted snooze.

If they can do it, I’d certainly be willing to give it a try.