The first frost always takes me by surprise. One morning the world looks the same — soft, weary, late-autumn golds — and the next, everything has turned silver. The air sharpens. The last of the garden bows its head. Even the wind sounds different, carrying the first hint of winter. And, inevitably, I forget to bring in my bay laurel plant and it dies and I have to scramble to find a replacement for the spring (bay laurel plants are actually hard to find!).

Frost is both beautiful and cruel. It kills what cannot withstand the cold, but it also preserves what might otherwise decay. Apples sweeten in its touch. Seeds harden for the long sleep ahead. In the hush after the first frost, there’s both loss and protection, an ending and a promise.

For writers and artists, the first frost can feel familiar. It’s that moment when the rush of autumn inspiration begins to fade, and the quiet work of reflection begins. The creative fire cools, the pace slows, and something in us wants to rest. It’s tempting to see this as failure — as if we’ve lost our spark — but frost is not an ending. This is especially true during a Rough Draft Challenge or NaNo 2.0 event.

Late autumn is a season of preservation. When life demands care, stillness, or silence, our creative selves are not gone. They’re waiting, preserved beneath the surface, gathering strength for spring. The frost teaches patience. It teaches us to trust that stories, like seeds, survive the winter.

Romance, too, has its seasons. There’s the summer of wild bloom, with new love, heat, and motion, and then the cooling. The first frost comes to every love story, even the lasting ones. It’s the moment we stop trying to stay in the first flush of warmth and learn instead to tend what endures. Frost reveals what’s strong enough to survive. Love deepens not in endless summer, but in the quiet understanding that even in cold, we hold each other close.

That’s what Thanksgiving feels like to me, a celebration in the frost. A feast of gratitude in the fading light. A reminder that even as the world stills, beauty remains: in the food we share, in the hands we hold, in the stories we tell by the fire. First frost reminds us that endings are never final. Endings are pauses, thresholds, and transformations. It’s the season that teaches us how to love gently, create bravely, and rest without fear.

So this Thanksgiving, when you see the frost on the grass, take a breath. Feel the world slowing down. Remember that what the frost touches, it also protects. And that, too, is a kind of grace.