Surrounded by Old Trees

The leaves are letting go. Their grip, so tight-fisted in green, is looser now in scarlet and gold and has begun to give way completely. They are tumbling from their lofty perches, en masse. If only their voices were just a bit more audible, one could perhaps hear squeals of delight as they fearlessly slip from their branches and chase each other round the garden in jeweltoned, featherlight flocks. Continuing all the day long, all through the cold November night, seeming to multiply by the thousands each hour upon hour as if bubbling up from the cold ground itself or being thrown down by the fistfuls from the hand of a mischievous angel high up beyond the clouds; an angel amused by her overhead view of us pink-cheeked beings as we scurry and worry in our feeble attempts to contain this ever growing torrent of falling, flying colour. Until we, not as slow to learn as might be supposed, finally lay down our wooden rakes and march towards the waiting warmth of the fire, realizing at last that this uncontrollable, technicolour horde is perhaps meant as a gift best enjoyed, with hot chocolate in hand and dogs snuggled beside us, from a soft chair by the window.
Oh, let them fall.

We're Blushing!

What a treat to find The House Of Edward Shoppe featured today on the delightful blog of Junk Style Diva! We are honored! Be sure and visit her to take a look and say hello. I have been up to my eyelashes in Christmas boxes for the past two weeks, as you can see above, and will be restocking my Etsy shop during the week. Polar Bears and Magical Stags, Enchanted Cottages, Vintage Santas, Antique Sleighs and Vintage Wise Men ....
Edward and I are having so much fun!

A Chore Neglected

Sometimes one neglects a common, everyday activity and that simple neglect turns out to have a decided effect on the course of one’s morning. For me that morning belonged to this very day and the chore neglected was the making up of my bed. I left this particular duty until after breakfast during which I observed a slightly misty, rather scowly morning squatting like gloom itself outside my cottage window. A dull grey grumpy morning that seemed most determined to cast a dull grey grumpy light through each windowpane, washing dull grey grumpy shadows over every room. Just as I was beginning to wonder if my mood was going to succumb to the same fate as those shadows, I passed by the bedroom door and spied it. Sitting there serene and stately, fluffy, warm, and only slightly rumpled, with fat, fat pillows and feather down blankets. The Unmade Bed. I could almost hear it calling my name in downy whispers. I looked around. Only Edward returned my gaze, and I knew what he would advise without having to ask. I looked at the telephone. So easy, really, to remove the little cord that controls the sound. For just an hour. Perhaps two. Gently setting down my coffee, I padded down the hallway and silently slipped between the crisp linen sheets. The wind chimes sang soft lullabies and the rest of the world was quiet. Edward, sensing his fondest wishes answered, landed lightly at my feet, placed his big wise head atop my ankles and heaved a restful, happy sigh. I could barely hold my eyes open lying as I was in the arms of such white comfort. The sing song, sing song, of the wind chimes began to recede away and away as I wafted down a twilight corridor holding on to the gentle hand of repose. Somewhere a mauve door closed and I was asleep. And I regret nothing.

Painting above by Vittore Carpaccio