autumn. Or Fall.

This morning, to Cheekwood House, just south of Nashville - for a beautiful walk around its gardens and woods: the highlights were the Japanese garden (nothing, but nothing, beats gingko trees at this time of the year);

the view from the house itself;

and then the sculpture walk through the woods, including this huge half human, half hare by Sophie Ryder;

Siah Armajani's Glass Bridge;

and what was one of my favorite pieces, John Scott's Tree Poem.

But all of this - which should have been an immersive woodland time; a tranquil pause - was punctuated by text messages coming in from Wimbledon.  If "fall," in an American context, must have been coined by people who were tired of the frenchiness of "autumn/autonne), or who were simply monosyllabic by nature, it took on a whole different resonance when I picked up the alert - and the rather too graphic picture - telling me that my father had had a dizzy moment and a fall and had grazed his head open - though the whole bloody mess was now clean and covered in steristrips, it wasn't easy to relax into a sylvan scene.  

So I took contemplative refuge for a little while inside a perfect James Turrell structure - or a structure made perfect by the sky.

And no - it's impossible to second-guess what this week will bring.  I'll stick, whatever, to calling the season "autumn".