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I find that I often write about the seasons, suggesting, I suppose, that they are not just peripheral characters in the narrative of my life. Our relationship is, in fact, deep and mimics the mix of angst and appreciation I hold for all the other life characters that both rock and repair my world, depending on the day.

And so here I sit, well past the honeymoon stage of my particular relationship with this Fall season. We are bonded by our collective determination to stick it out as the glory of the reds and yellows and oranges inevitably ends in the proud nakedness of bare limbs. Its oddly renewing I guess, but I now have a lot of leaves to divert back into the wooded areas at the edges of the grassy lawn. Maybe we’ll finish up this weekend.

Round one of clean-up left a leaf heap in the front yard that I have been eyeing out the window for the past week, willing it to stay tidy, grateful for the rain that might harden the pack, thus mitigating the impact of the autumnal winds that always seem to come on the heels of the wet weather. I’d say the bulk of it has stayed intact; there is definitely a good mound that I might consider leaping into if I were still under a certain age and under a certain weight, but the edges are frayed and becoming less defined. I can’t tell if its that more leaves have fallen or if the wily ones from the pile have scattered in elective freedom – but it’s all a bit messy.

I can relate.

It seems to me that we might all be a bit of a “leaf pile” these days. Foundationally strong with (perhaps even deeper) clarity of core and place. Yet our edges are a bit tattered, and we remain on high alert for the next gust that might sweep through in the dead of night leaving a whole new and strewn-about reality revealed by the morning light. Our rake tines are worn, and our leaf blowers are down to the fumes of the gas tank. It’s a bit hard to imagine that we will ever be able finish gathering the pile, neat and orderly, manageable and tucked in tight.

But maybe that’s not what leaves are meant to do.

It occurs to me that our Thanksgiving tables might be leaf piles too. Familiar traditions try to gather a bunch of fidgety pieces not quite sure where they want to land. I find myself wondering about our patience and tolerance for those not wanting to settle in so easily this year. Our tolerance for ourselves as we too may need to blow about a little while longer. Yet we, like the leaves, are all a part of the season. We all belong. We all represent the rich abundance that is made up of family, loved ones, holiday celebration – be it neat and clean or wildly unkempt.

Either way, we at FH Perry Builder hope your home is your core this holiday. The center of the pile where you can sit tight and safe. If you are hosting or being hosted, if people come to you or you go out and come back, that the foundational strength and crafted elegance feels reliably solid. Even if traditions end up being rewritten or some parts just won’t settle down, even if your edges are tattered, may your home be the beautiful base of your patience, your love, your joy, your calm.

Happy Thanksgiving to all of you from all of us.

With light and love,