Saturday, the first day of fall, rolled around. And most obligingly, on the Fall Equinox, the clouds gathered, the temperatures dropped, the drizzle dampened the air and the Earth. I ordered a punkin spiced latte, half-sweet, and decorated my home, and reveled in the coziness.
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Lord, how I love these autumn days! The air that dithers been almost-warm and just-a-bit-chilly doesn't punish, doesn't suffocate. These perfectly-balanced days seem almost brittle, like they could shatter into tiny fragments, so small that they will be swallowed up and subsumed into the harsher weather that will, inevitably, come. But hopefully, not before giving us some time to enjoy the glory and comfort that comes as we pause and drink in the gentle golden sunlight, the leaves drifting reluctantly to earth, the mums and punkins and corn mazes and cider and laughter and the sluggish blood in our veins quickening its pace as once more, we encounter invigorating change.
And yet...
(There's always an "and yet", ya know?)
I'm always somewhat predisposed to woolgathering and melancholic remembrances of former years, former friends, former lovers, former opportunities, all long gone. And with these dying days, with the crickets' song fading along with the heat of summer, with another year of my life drawing to its close, it's hard for me to not to become a bit ruminative, a bit questioning of my progress through this world. I know things will not always remain this way; that I will not always be content with this quiet existence of unceasing work and desire to be of use. Oh, perhaps, just perhaps, I shall carry on and continue to love it, and one day wake up and be 50, or 60, or 70, still working, still pursuing this life of solitude, still avoiding things that I am afraid I will fail at.
In the meantime, I'm going to go out into the bright September sun and drink up the beautiful days as they unfold.
