Consider a cool autumn breeze blowing through dried sheaves of wheat, still on the stalk; there is beauty–gold, harvest, abundance, life for the winter, and also death–death of the plant, of the season, of the sun. Life and death. Beauty, no matter how to parse it.
It is the time to dig in, hole up, stand your ground; there is beauty in this, too. Beauty in the wrapping up of projects that you put your heart and soul into. Beauty in reaping the results of your hard effort. Beauty in the celebration of what once was and the promise of what more is to come. Revel in it. All things come to an end, but the beauty–that remains, and that will see you through all of the winters that come after. Love, Freya