A whiff of woodsmoke caught in my nostrils tells me a change is on the way. This is the first sign or maybe it is the confirmation of what is to come. I cannot decide. Still, it is nice, the way the air bites at my face when I go outside after dinner to allow the dogs into the house. It feels as if somebody has thrown ice cubes on my skin, refreshing and chill. The night is calm and nothing really stirs apart from the smell of the smoke and I know that there are people indoors, already relishing the warmth of the stove that they happen to be fortunate to sit before. I stop when I smell the smoke, it comes to me like a forgotten pleasure and for that I am grateful. All things in their own good time.

I walk into change. I will not fear it. Change is good.

Last Monday I felt afraid for a little while. I walked into a new place and now almost a week later I think that place was waiting for me to find it. All things in their own good time.

Chefs' uniforms can get hot. I know that now. But they can also look, so, so, French. When I put on my chequered pants and cravat and double-breasted jacket and cotton cap and white apron,  I felt different. I discarded my hi-tops, blue stockings and bohemian dress in the changing room. I never looked in the mirror until I was done dressing. When I was completely clad it was only then that I dared glance at who I thought I would see but I looked different. My cheeks were flushed. The cravat hugged my neck and the safety shoes, although clumsy at first, soon carried me confidently down the halls and into the kitchen. I moved on with all the other hopeful chefs and we blended like Autumn leaves strewn on a path. We were all the same.

My son talks about life to me on this Friday night. I've missed him all week long. I passed him in the hall on the way out and once home we mostly ate in silence so tired as we happened to be. He is changing at a rapid pace. Not like leaves, that take their time but his change is faster, like all I ever taught him is coming together with a great big bang. He is passionate about justice and human rights and life and all those things he feels he has to do. I listen, interested and we talk for hours. I pour him a glass of wine. He sips and talks and we move on. All things in their own good time.

I had many gifts this week. All transitions coming into me and flowing out like light thistle down on the breeze and I thank the gods of change for all the chances that change can bring, for the woodsmoke and the uniform and the love and the son who can talk to me like I am his best friend and for the man who showed me how to chop an onion properly and for the lonely student who sat alone in the classroom across from me and how I dared speak to him and he looked thankful for that and I thought well, we are both doing eachother a favour, we both need a friend, we both are human and we are all on the same path, strewn with beech leaves, sometimes soggy with rain but when dry make the most delightful journey, tossed and golden, like honey. Like all good things.