Leaving orchestra last night, I walked across the church grounds in the dark with my hard case on my back, and watched my red shoes crunch into the frost-covered grass. It was the first real frost I’d observed this fall. We’ve had delicate crystals here and there on the rooves of cars and the edges of fallen leaves, but nothing like this. The whole lawn was brushed with greyish white. Each blade of grass was fully painted in sparkle and chill, lit only by the faint streetlamps down the block. Everything was still — there was no breeze, and it’s a quiet neighbourhood — and all I could hear was the crisp, gentle sound of my soles coming down on those blades of grass. It felt different than walking on unfrosted grass does, too; there was a brittle resistance to every footstep. And as I pulled the car away from the curb, the fan drew in wisps of woodsmoke from far off.

It was one of those moments where you’re fully present, absorbing life as it is. It was just lovely.