Fall is soon upon us. Today in my neighbor's maple tree I saw the first sign of the blazing red color this tree turns each fall. It's still warm and feels like summer, but the days of falling leaves, chilly evenings and apple cider and donuts will soon be here. I look forward to fall, but I find these days of transition difficult.
I have been in a low grade funk ever since I got home from Cabrillo and I was trying to figure what's been going on and why I've been feeling this way. Just as the seasons change, I think our lives have seasons of their own. I think it's as if our psyche remembers both the good and bad things that happen to us.
I've often heard that for those who've lost a close family member, that season of the year is usually a difficult one. I have been restless these past two weeks, unable to sleep, and I've had a surprisingly insatiable desire for Wendy's French fries, my drug of choice when the funk hits. (Is that so bad?)
It dawned on me that it was two years ago that Meg and I ended things, and a year ago that I professed my love for her and she rejected me.
It's no wonder I've been in a funk--life has circled around to this painful time of the year again.
I can honestly say that the pain has essentially past. I still have twinges here and there, echoes of a year ago, but I'm no longer bleeding.
This in between time is challenging. It will be better when I'm back to work, back teaching, and back into the swing of my daily life.
Next year I just need to be prepared for this season of my life.
I am reminded of a poem I already posted about a year ago. It's become one of my favorites, and is worth posting again.
In quick or in slow succession, frost
into fire, fire into frost,
the seasons of the year return
and leave us numb with cold
or warm us, like the seasons of the heart.
But that last season you endured
--your heart’s dark winter—
was so bleak and cold that still
to this day, to this hour,
the frost remains in your blood.
But now is the moment of change,
now the apocalypse.
Today, swept by the winds of another
season, the blossoms
of the fruit trees are ablaze with colour.
Surely it is the end of spring,
the promised summer?
So say “yes” and “yes” again
to this moment
while it turns, for soon it will be gone.
And soon the trees of spring
will become the trees of memory,
and will be shaken by the powerful winds
of memory, cowering
like blown candles and blazing askew.
----Paul Murray in The Absent Fountain