After the pace and complications of August, I have reached September like a shipwreck survivor, washed up on shore, lying there with my face against the wet grainy sand, grateful and incredulous that I am out of the churning surf. I need to rise to my feet and get above the tide line, but for the moment, I am thinking only "I made it."
Helping me make this transition to where I want to be is the time of year. Our summer has begun to melt into fall, a little earlier than in recent years. The nights have been cool - cool enough to reach for a sweater or shut a window. The noonday sky has become so blue it makes my throat ache to look at it.
Fall is just a breath away.
We get up at about the same time each morning, and with the slow wheeling around of the seasons, that means we now are up before the sun has cleared the horizon. There is a different quality to the light these days. The brassy harsh gold of the summer sun is gone. The sunrise is now long shafts of cool, clear colors before the sun finally appears.
I am invigorated by autumn and find it a season of renewal. I know: it is the season of the earth decaying, readying itself for the long sleep of winter. But to me it is full of energy. Maybe I am fueled by the chill air. Maybe it is the brilliant autumn colors that sustain me.
I know I need to take out my compass and determine where I am following the tumult of last month. For today, though, I feel akin to Emily Dickinson, who wrote:
The morns are meeker than they were -
The nuts are getting brown -
The berry's cheek is plumper -
The Rose is out of town.
The Maple wears a gayer scarf -
The field a scarlet gown -
Lest I should be old fashioned
I'll put a trinket on.