The world was glazed with white yesterday when I woke up. The air was still cold enough that I could see my breath as I walked around inspecting the damage from our first frost.

The nasturtiums are kaput, of course, but the perennials like the cranesbill geranium in the picture have lots of fight left in them. They'll be thumbing their noses at the weather for another few weeks at least.

The maples will put that final push on now that they've finally had a frost, wrap the mountains in a coat of many colours. It's easy to become blasé about the beauty here most of the year, but autumn's final shout before winter seeps in to squeeze all the colour out simply can't be ignored.

I walked the quarter mile down our drive to our mailbox yesterday, my feet scuffing the first fallen leaves. How do you describe the texture of a fall day? A hint of woodsmoke from a distant neighbour's chimney mixed with that fallen leaf smell, the way it's warm when you're in the sun, but cool now in the shade ...

Last night we lit the woodstove for the first time, set the kettle on the far edge. The sound of its boiling tells us how the stove is running, the dying of the kettle prompting one of us to slip downstairs, lift the stove lid, toss another piece of wood into the coals.

Right now winter seems impossibly far away, but it's not. Soon the stove will be on all the time.

This morning I looked in the mirror and a woman with hair glazed white by time looked back at me.

Once I thought that dying was impossibly far away, but it's not. I am gliding into my autumn years.

Once I thought I had infinite amounts of time to chase my dreams and now I know I don't.

Somewhere along the line I lost the feeling that I am invulnerable, and I don't like this one bit.