I stand convinced that the year 2011 passed without a summer. As one whose mental and emotional faculties have formed a steadfast, boy scout worthy knot around the weather patterns, I can assert this with 99.9% certainty. That minute fraction of doubt accounts for the two times I went quarry swimming (though I'm of the opinion now that those were lucid dreams) and the early handful of afternoons that my birthday suit met sun rays on the deck for a pow wow (now evident only in the microscopic caramel to olive gradient of a forgotten tan line). Some women are thought to be born with a maternal instinct; Mother Nature invoked me with a vernal instinct, and this year I was a woman so barren that I hadn't the proclivity to grasp at even the most fleeting of orphaned sun beams... A heart resigned to deprivation.
What was I deprived of? My time, my security, my ability to be still without the looming echo of of some undone task. A second job turned in to a third turned in to a fourth. Days were no longer days, they were doubles. The weeks consisted of 14 flipbook quality cycles of cognition. Don't ask how, the answer will exhaust even the most zen-like mind. In short, I flew the coop of a nest I'd built for 10 years in the candy biz, all woven by little twigs of friendship, personal strife, shelter, happiness, and comfort. Truth be told, my boy scout artistry doesn't end at the crafting of an emotonal weather knot, I've perfected a lasso grip on routine as well. Bouncing from place to place doesn't suit me, and when those places are completely devoid of sentimental value it is all the more a drain on the soul. Luckily, this little bird has landed on a branch perfectly fit to house a new nest of accomplishments and dreams. There are new seasons afoot.
I know myself painstakingly well, maybe to a fault, but I think what I'm experiencing these days is the waking moments of a transformation. The girl who thrives on light and warmth feels betrayed, and has found an unusual revelatory quality in these recent days of sweater weather and stone grey skies. Don't get me wrong, I've always adored the autumn season for it's wild colors, crisp mornings, and pumpkin-induced euphoria, but that has invariably taken a backseat to the regenerative properties of the spring and summer sun. What changed? There was a snag in my thread of comfort that has only recently been mended, and as a result I'm investing every unrequited aspect of warm month happiness in to the Fall account; I'm teeming with repressed enthusiasm to find comfort, and I don't mind if that comfort comes from sweaters and blankets as opposed to lawn chairs and sticky skin.
Though probably not on permanent vacation, the boggy Southern summer days played an unexpected outro early this week, and with the cooler temperatures came a therapeutic psychic upswell. Every absence and upset of Bummer (nonexistent) Summer '11 has vanished. The love child of spring rebirth and New Year's Eve promise is coursing through my veins; I'm ready for new beginnings. Now out of hiding, I can't hep but engage in holistic conversations with myself. I needed a cold splash to the face, and moreover, I needed to find new reasons to smile. Bring on the abundance and repose of an unmarred season.
This afternoon I walked down the sidewalk running errands with my waffle knit cowl neck sweater hanging loosely at my sides. Cool air brushed my flushed cheeks and rapped against the sleeves of my sweater. I felt awake, felt compelled to think, not lulled or extinguished by an overheated body and mind. I acknowledged for the first time in months the sensation of being motivated and curious. So tonight I celebrate self renewal with the back door open as damp crisp air filters in and circulates summer stagnation out of the apartment. I got all rosy-cheeked over a hot a oven when a rare impulse to bake found me hovering with a full mouth over two dozen Nutella Spice Cookies. I prepared my dinner with equal gusto, full of spice; rosemary roasted carrots, brussels sprouts seared in the apple cider vinegar and garlic, dill baked salmon. WAKE UP WAKE UP!! I cried to my senses. WE ARE ALIVE! COME OUT COME OUT! It was visceral. At this very moment I continue to feel little parts of myself unfolding like a withered plant whose roots absorbed tiny drops of water for the first time in a very long time.
The gloomy days are nice, really. Unlike the sun that reaches in to my apartment and envelopes me in her glistening arms with the expectation that I'll join her outdoors, these drizzly days ask only that I stop and take this time to do a slow about face. I don't want to distract my senses from this time of introspection, so I keep the lights down low. My life is illuminated by pockets of amber glow where small desk lamps reside. I'm beckoning a little extra warmth from as many candles as I can possibly light without serious risk of a fire. My mind is racing with the possibility of camping trips, craft projects, and hours singing over dinner in the kitchen. I can't wait to get my little mitts on my knitting needles, I want desperately to hold a glass of bourbon in front of a campfire under layers of clothes. Cowgirl boots, pumpkins, chilly nights at the drive-in, that first pot of chili.. Soon I'll replace my tomato plants with Mums and adorn my neck with scarves instead of summer necklaces. Mom will have an altar during Dia de Los Muertos, I'll rock climb, and finally make another pair of leather moccasins. This Autumn is welcome with open arms to the point that if my heart were a front door, there'd be a little pineapple trinket hanging from my soul. I prepare the apartment each morning with the same care I would if I knew there were guests on the way, edging out the dejected carelessness of those long summer days that still managed to pass with barely a whisper.
It's only cloudy to accommodate all the light that will soon come flooding in.
