I follow my dog up the giant mount of sandy earth that towers at the edge of the park south of our house. Rain has scored canyons in the broad path to the top. These are deeper than an Australian Shepherd is tall.

Off leash, Esti is as exuberant as a puppy. She has been doing her land-dolphin leaps through the dry grasses. Now she charges into one of the grooves only to bound out again.

She reaches the top before I do. I don’t know what lies beyond the crest of the hill. I tell her to wait and she does. This never ceases to feel remarkable. We are surrounded by acres of open land and neighborhoods. She could go anywhere. And yet, she stays with me.

It is pure dark outside when I open the curtains but our new neighbor tends to leave the porch light on. Glittery shards of rainbow refract in the prismatic frosting on our bathroom window.

When the sun rises, it is lost behind clouds. I often feel a low sky like a fist around my heart. Today, I try to appreciate the softened textures—to see what is still bright when all else is gray.

The elephant ear has a new leaf. It’s coming up in a tight furl, growing but keeping its interior tight against itself.

I found this plant on a chair by the sidewalk with the word “free” on a piece of paper taped to the seat. It was just one large leaf attached to a thick stem sticking out of a bulb in a discarded glass jar. I do not need more plants. I have rather too many. But I carried it home, put it in a pot, and found it a place by a window that may or may not be ideal for its needs.

The new leaf is a good sign. Each day, it is closer to unwinding. I check on it every time I walk into the room. There is no rush. But I’m excited to see the pattern its been working on when it decides to show me.

Outside, the plants are calling it a season. The hostas and ferns have vanished. The coneflowers are gone all black and brittle. Only a few yellow leaves cling in the trees. But inside is another matter. One by one, my orchids are putting out their spikes. It’s a thrill each time I discover a new one. I use tiny clips to bind the fresh green shoots to stakes.

I’d prefer to let them grow without this interference. I’ve tried, but it never works out. The flowers end up smashed against frost-chilled windows or arrayed in a way that pulls plants off balance. The white one in my office fell off its shelf twice last year thanks to the sideways bloom pattern it opted for. I was determined to restore balance this year. But the new shoot came out wedged below a leaf.

I can’t stake the stem without contorting the entire plant. So I’ve put the plant in a support stand instead. It’s now growing with enthusiasm in a ridiculous direction. It will be the first of my orchids to flower this year. I suspect no one will notice that it’s off-kilter once it blooms.

A chill on the air this morning but it is not below freezing. There is less light every day, fewer leaves in the trees. But yesterday I got so warm while riding my horse that I stripped down to a t-shirt to pull his saddle. November in Iowa never used to be this way.

There’s no sense in being afraid of the future. I focus on aesthetics to soothe myself. The gleam of water in a glass. Our dog’s muted reflection in the worn sheen of the floorboards. There is art on every wall of this house, each piece made by someone I know or knew or at least have met. I wonder why pain turns some people mean but teaches others to search and grow and labor to create beauty.

Steam rises as I pour coffee. Warmth against my palm. The slanted sunlight falls upon the peace lily in the corner for only a few minutes before shifting to the wall. I listen to the quiet chirp of the crickets in the hostas out below the window. They sound subdued this morning. They must know it is already fall.

I am late starting breakfast. Our dog radiates impatience. She is increasingly a creature of habit. She was once all black around her eyes. Now she’s all gray. She relies on her routines. I do too, but only so I can release them and be prepared for surprises when they arise.

Outside, the vibrant pink of the coneflower blooms are crisping to black. The walnut trees are dropping their leaves. I will spend the next several months fighting a battle of attrition, trying to keep the litter from overtaking the back porch.

“On the bright side, pain keeps you moving.”

Someone said this to me a little while ago. Sometimes I worry that pain has become my comfort zone. Something about my personality. I am inclined to dwell and delve when I should cut and run.

Reptiles bask in warmth. Plants turn towards the light. I should be able to learn to focus on what does not hurt.

Sometimes in life, I am a quick study. Other times, not so much.

Mist softens the view out the window this morning. The summer has reached its peak. The river birch is so thick with leaves that I can hardly see the papery bark of its branches.

The bluebells are well up now, adding a splash of color throughout the yard. They contrast with the fading daffodils and the bright heads of the fuzzy dandelions. I always forget about the creeping carpet of purple that fills in the back corner of the lawn until it surprises me with its reappearance.

The trees are just starting to show us their tiny green leaves. In the afternoon, these are incandescent before the sun. The hydrangea bushes beyond the back fence are getting heavy with green puffballs waiting to turn white.

Spring is not a time I typically associate with loss. This year is different. I look at the flowers. I know they will bloom for only a short while before they fade. I will treasure them in the meantime.